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Ex  lihris   Henry  S.  Saunders 

\ATiitman  Collection      J 

Re  hauL-oc'  6y    /iriiiL^     I^Cf" 

oyf'at  ft  f  '^"-  /*?<»//    f^^J 

Which  reminds  us  that  Harry  got  con- 
siderably ahead  of  us  with  his  excellent 
comment  on  the  Final  Number  of  The 
Little  Review.  We  didn't  get  our  copy 
until  just  recently.  One  thing  strikes  us 
forcibly  as  we  glance  through  it:  how  vast- 
ly important  the  lesser  of  its  contributors 
seem  to  themselves.  Here  and  there,  how- 
ever, one  is  relieved  by  taciturnity:  in  gen- 
eral the  taciturnity  bears  a  direct  relation 
to  the  importance  of  the  writer.  There  are 
exceptions.  But  for  the  most  part  the  most 
important  writers  react  most  briefly  to  the 
questionnaire  set  them.  Most  of  all  in  the 
number  we  enjoyed  the  various  snap  shots 
of  the  editor,  Margaret  Anderson.  She  cer- 
tainly is  a  darn  pretty  girl.  .  .  . 

S<3tt    iW.  r|  AiA.'      ^yj 

THE  LITTLE  REVIEW.   New  York.   March  1918 
to  December  192  0. 

Ulysses  made  its  first  printed  ap- 
pearance in  "The  Little  Review"  edited  in 
New  York  by  Margaret  C.  Anderson  and  Jane 
Heap.   Twenty-three  installments  appeared 
between  March  1918  and  December  192  0.   The 
issues  of  January  and  May  1919  and  January 
and  July-August  192  0  were  banned  or  con- 
fiscated by  the  U.S.  Post  Office.   No 
further  installments  appeared  after  the 
September-December  192  0  issue  and,  thus, 
this  first  appearance  of  the  text  is 
incomplete.   Although  few  copies  of  these 
issues  are  in  existence,  the  Brown  University 
file,  shown  here  in  part,  is  complete. 

.^v  .^ 





S^:  ""it' 

■ » 


>i  , 

t^  -. 


'  '"-J 







VOL.  VII       MAY-JUNE        No.  1 


Frontispiece  Portrait 

W.  H.  Hudson:  Some  Reminiscences                 Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

Hudson:  Poet  Strayed  into  Science                                     Ezra  Pound 

W.  H.  Hudson  John  Rodker , 

Nine  Chinese  Poems  Witter  Bynner 

L'Amazone  Ghana  Orloff 

Religion  Maxwell  Bodenhe'un 

Poems:  Mark  Turbyfill 

The  Metaphysical  Botanists 


Femme  Enceinte  Ghana  Orloff 

The  Other  Woman  '                                      Sherwood  Anderson 

Danpeuses  Ghana  Orloff 

Danke  Pseudomacabre  William   Garlos  Williams 

Noble  Words  Maxwell  Bodenheim 

Ghana  Orloff  Muriel  Giolkowska 

Interim  (conclusion)  Dorothy  Richardson 

Ulysses   (Episode  Xlll)  James  Joyce 
The  Reader  Critic 

^bscription  price,  payable  in  advance,  in  the  United  States  and  Territories,  $2.50 
perjyear;  Single  copy,  2Sc.  ;  Canada,  $2.75;  Foreign,  $3.00.  Published  monthly  and 
copyrighted,    1920,    by    Margaret    C.    Anderson. 

Manuscripts  must   be   submitted  at   author's   risk,   with  return   postage. 

Entered  as  second  class  matter  March  16,  1917,  at  the  Post  Office  at  New  York, 
N.  v.,  under  the  act  of  March   3,   1879. 


27  West  Eighth  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

/oreiffn  Office:  43  Belsizf  Park  Gar^em,  London,  N,  W,  3. 

W.  H.  HUDSON. 


IV.  H.  Hudson 

Some    Reminiscences 

by  Ford  Madox  Huejfer 

FOR  a  long,  long  time    I  dare  say  for  twenty-five  years — I 
have  been  longing  to  say  something  about  Hudson.      But 
what  is  there  to  say?     Of  things  immense,  tranquil  or  con- 
summate, it  is  difficult  indeed  to  speak  or  to  write.     The 
!     words  are  at  the  tip  of  the  tongue;  the  ideas  at  the  back  of 
the  brain      .      .      .      and  yet:  Nothing!     So  one  says:  "immense," 
"tranquil,"  "consummate." 

Suppose  one  should  say  that  one  would  willingly  cancel  every  one 
of  the  forty  or  so  books  that  one  has  published  if  one  could  be  given 
the  power  to  write  one  paragraph  as  this  great  poet  writes  a  para- 
graph 3  or  that  one  would  willingly  give  up  all  one's  powers  of  visual- 
ising this  and  that  if  one  could  be  granted  this  great  naturalist's 
power  of  looking  at  a  little  bird.  .  .  .  But  of  course  that  would 
not  bf  enough.  Or  rather  it  would  be  nothing  at  all.  For  I  suppose 
that  if  one  had  the  power  to  frame  one  paragraph  one  could  frame 
others:  and  if  one  had  the  vision  of  the  poet  one  would  be  the  poet's 
self.  One  might  say — and  indeed  I  do  say  with  perfect  sincerity — 
that  one  would  willingly  sacrifice  all  one's  gifts  as  a  writer  if  one 
could  give  to  this  unapproached  master  of  English  ten  years  longer 
pf  writing  life.     .      .      ,     But  even  that  would  be  selfish — for  one 

The    Little    Review 

would  have  the  pleasure :  one  would  read  what  he  wrote. 

For  me,  then,  Hudson  is  the  unapproached  master  of  the  English 
tongue.  There  are  no  doubt  other  English  writers — though  English 
as  a  language  is  woefully  lacking  in  prose  towards  which  one  need  not 
be  kind — in  unassailable  prose.  Still  there  are  possibly  other  English 
writers.  But  there  is  no  other  English  writer  that  you  cannot  say 
something  about.  One  derives  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne — but  is  not 
as  good ;  another  gets  his  effects  from  a  profound  study  of  the  Author- 
ised Version  but  falls  short  of  the  resonance  of  the  Inspired  Original ; 
another  has  caught  the  jolly  humor  of  Rabelais;  when  Mr.  Peskith 
writes  you  might  swear  it  was  Montaigne  speaking;  someone  else  puts 
down  the  thoughts  of  Dante  in  the  language  of  Shapespeare.  .  .  . 
Well,  we  know  the  sort  of  stuff  that  English  prose  is.  Only  Hudson 
is  different. 

The  only  English  writer  with  whom  I  have  ever  had  the  luck  to 
discuss  the  "how"  of  writing  was  Mr.  Conrad.  (I  will  say  this  for 
Americans  that,  if  they  practice  letters,  they  are  much  more  usually 
devoured  by  curiosity  about  what  is  called  "technique."  I  have  heard 
Mr.  Owen  Wister  talk  for  quite  a  time  on  several  occasions  with  Mr. 
James  about  the  written  word  as  a  means  of  expression.  I  have  talked 
for  hours  with  members  of  the  editorial  staff  of  New  York  magazines 
— as  to  how  to  write  a  short  story! — and  I  used  to  talk  for  hours  with 
Stephen  Crane — why  is  poor  dear  Stevie  forgotten ;  the  finest  poet 
that  two  continents  produced  in  a  century? — just  about  words!  And 
Crane  made  the  most  illuminating  remark  about  English  prose  that  I 
ever  heard).  But  the  onl}  true-blue  English  writers  that  I  ever  heard 
discuss  how  to  write,  as  apart  from  how  to  make  money  by  writing  or 
who  was  the  best  Agent  or  the  worst  Publisher  or  the  meanest  Editor 
or  the  Best  Seller — was,  then,  Mr.  Conrad. 

And,  once,  Mr.  Conrad  looked  up  from  reading  "Green  Mansions" 
and  said:  "You  can't  tell  how  this  fellow  gets  his  effects!"  And,  a 
long  time  after  I  had  agreed  that  I  couldn't  tell  how  Hudson  got  his 
effects,  Conrad  continued:  "He  writes  as  the  grass  grows.  The  gjol 
God  makes  it  be  there.     And  that  is  all  there  is  to  it!" 

And  that  is  all  there  is  to  it.  "Green  Mansions"  is  the  only  Eiglish 
novel  of  passion;  the  "Purple  Land"   is  the  onl\-   English   ncncl  ui; 

The    Little     Review 

Romaiice  (and  1  don't  except  Mr.  Conrad's  and  my  own  Romances). 
"Natuie  in  Devonland,"  "Hampshire  Days,"  "Birds  in  a  Village" 
and  the  "Shepherds'  Life"  are  the  only  English  books  about  England. 
And  ydu  must  remember  that  Mr.  Hudson  is  an  American  of  New 
England  stock. 

"The  Good  God  makes  it  be  there!"— Was  there  ever  a  more 
splendid  phrase  uttered  of  a  writer's  prose?  Every  morning  of  my 
life  I  lie  in  bed  and  look  at  a  piece  of  mutton  fat  dangling  from  a 
string  outside  the  open  window.  Suddenly  there  is  a  flirt  of  wmgs: 
the  njutton  fat  crepitates,  as  you  might  say,  against  the  panes.  But 
you  sle  nothing.  Then  the  bird  grows  bolder,  returns.  It  becomes 
a  bir^  form;  hanging;  upside  down  from  the  piece  of  fat;  peckmg 
rapidly.  Against  the  morning  light  it  looks  grey,  with  dark  margms 
on  th^  head.    It  is  one  of  the  tits :  the  Great  Tit,  I  dare  say. 

\\^11:  there  it  is  and  that's  that!  If  you  or  I  wrote  about  it,  that 
woult  be  all  there  was  to  it.  A  Gilbert  White  wrote  about  tomtits 
running  up  drains  in  the  neighbourhood  of  houses  in  search  of  succu- 
lent tnorsels.  But  imagine  Mr.  Hudson  first  watching  the  bird  and 
then  writing  about  it ! 

I  juppose  the  chief  characteristic  of  great  writers — of  writers  who 
are  ^reat  by  temperament  as  well  as  by  industry  or  contrivance — is 
self-lbandonment.  You  imagine  Mr.  Hudson  Avatching  a  tiny  being 
andlhis  whole  mind  goes  into  the  watdiing:  then  his  whole  mmd 
goes  into  the  rendering.  Probably  there  is  some  delight  in  the 
watL-hing  and  more  austerity,  more  diligence,  in  the  act  of  recording. 
Thlt  no  doubt  varies.  Turgenev  is  such  another  as  Mr.  Hudson 
and  I  can  recall  no  third, 

Turgenev,  I  mean,  watched  humanity  with  much  such  another  en- 
grossment as  Mr.  Hudson  devotes  to  Kingfishers,  sheep  or  the  grass 
of  fields  and  rendered  his  results  with  the  same  tranquility.  Prob- 
aliy,  however,  Turgenev  had  a  greater  self-consciousness  in  the  act 
ofj writing:  for  of  Mr.  Hudson  you  might  as  well  say  that  he  never 
hi  read  a  book.  The  Good  God  makes  his  words  be  there.  .  .  . 
Still,  in  the  "Sportsman's  Sketches"  and  in  the  "Singers,"  the  "Rattle 
of)  the  Wheels"  and  in  "Bielshin  Prairie"  above  all — you  get  that 
njte: — of  the  enamoured,  of  the  rapt,  watcher;  so  enamoured  and  so 

The    Little    R  e  v  i  e 

rapt  that  the  watcher  disappears,  becoming  merely  part  of  the  sur- 
rounding atmosphere  amidst  which,  with  no  self  consciousness,  the 
men,  the  forests  or  the  birds  act  and  interact.  I  know,  hovever,  of 
no  other  writers  that  possess  this  complete  selflessness. 

It  is  no  doubt  this  faculty  that  gives  to  Mr.  Hudson's  vork  the 
power  to  suggest  vast  very  tranquil  space  and  a  man  absoutely  at 
home  in  it,  or  motionless  vegetation,  a  huge  forest  and  a  traveler  who 
wishes  to  go  nowhere,  or  ever  to  reach  the  forest  bounds.  For  you 
can  suggest  immensity  in  your  rendering  of  the  smallest  of  British 
birds  if  you  know  an  immense  deal  about  the  bird  itself ;  if  you  have 
watched  innumerable  similar  birds,  travelling  over  shires,  countries, 
duchies,  kingdoms,  hemispheres — and  always  selflessly.  So  tie  ren- 
dering of  one  individual  bird  will  connote  to  the  mind  of  your  reader 
— if  you  happen  to  be  Mr.  Hudson! — the  great  distances  of  country 
in  which  you  have  travelled  in  order  that,  having  seen  so  many  such 
birds,  you  may  so  perfectly  describe  this  one.  Great  plains  will  rise 
up  before  your  reader's  mind:  immensely  high  skies;  distant  blue 
ranges,  far  woodlands.  .  .  .  Tranquil  spaces:  immense  dis- 
tances! .  .  .  Consummate  too!  Because  of  course  tlie  Bon 
Dieu — I  beg  Mr.  Conrad's  pardon! — the  Good  God  did  sonething 
consummate  when  he  gave  to  Mr.  Hudson  a  style  that  is  like  the 
green  grass  growing! 


It  is  twenty-five — or  twenty-four,  or  twenty-three ! — years  ago 
since  I  sat  with  Conrad,  one  day  in  the  drawing-room  of  my  farm ; 
the  Pent  it  was  called.  We  were  deep  in  the  struggles  that  produced 
"Romance"  and  Conrad  was  groaning  terribly  and  telling  me — as  he 
has  told  in  several  kingdoms,  shires,  duchies,  countries  and  langaages 
— that  I  did  not  know  how  to  write.  Of  course  I  didn't  know  how 
to  write  as  Mr.  Conrad  did  before  he  became  a  true-blue  Englislman. 
At  any  rate  we  were  engrossed. 

A  man  went  past  the  window:  very  tall,  casting  a  shadow  icross 
the  pink  monthly  roses.  These  commonplace  Kentish  flowers  peeped 
over  the  window  sill  of  the  deep,  living-room  whose  low  dappled 

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ceilirg  was  cut  in  half  by  a  great  beam.     So  the  tall  man's  shadow 
flickered  across  them 

It  is  disturbing  when  you,  a  man  of  letters,  engrossed  in  the  "Heart 
of  tlie  Country,"  see  a  shadow  fall  from  a  very  tall  stranger  across 
your  room  and  the  monthly  roses.  You  think  of  duns,  bailiffs,  unpaid 
butcler's  bills.  .  .  .  But  Conrad,  always  sanguine,  hoping  for 
the  best  (I  never  had  many  hopes  when  strangers  approached  me) 
excUimed:  "That  will  be  the  man  who  wants  to  sell  a  horse!"  Panic, 
anylow,  seized  us.  Dans  un  grenier  comme'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans! 
(I  suppose  I  was  twenty-four!)  A  panic!  The  immensely  tall 
strariger  repassed  the  window. 

Conrad  went  to  the  door.     And  I  heard : 

Conrad:     You've  come  about  the  mare! 

Ppice:     I'm  Hudson! 

Conrad:     She's  out  with  the  ladies. 

mice:     I'm  Hudson! 

Conrad:     The  mare  will  be  back  in  about  half  an  hour. 

Hudson  was  staying  at  New  Romney — which  is  New  only  in  the 
sense  that  William  I.  built  it  in  1080  A.  D.  instead  of  Cassar  in 
45  3.  C.  .  .  .  Hudson  then,  was  staying  at  New  Romney  and 
liad  walked  over — fourteen  miles  in  order  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
grejit  author  of  "Youth,"  "Heart  of  Darkness,"  "Lord  Jim,"  and 
"Amayer's  Folly."     .      .      . 

]  remember  Hudson  again — there  are  more  reminiscences! — in  one 
of  the  beastly  cafes  in  Soho.  (They  resemble  Mouquin's  in  Sixth 
Aienue,  New  \ork,  though  I  do  not  remember  Mouquin's  as  being 
bastly,  at  all — but  very  expensive  by  comparison!)  At  any  rate  it 
wis  the  Cafe  Riji,  Soho.  There  were  present  Mr.  Galsworthy,  Mr. 
Hlaire  Belloc,  Mr.  Edward  Garnett  .  .  ,  Mr,  . 
Veil,  I  don't  remember  every  one  who  was  present.  And  just  as 
]\{r.  Belloc  was  shouting  "Glorious  County,  Sussex!"— in  came  Mr. 

The  dialogue  went  on  like  this: 

Belloc:  Glorious  county,  Sussex!  Glorious  county,  Sussex!  You 
en  ride  from  the  Crystal  Palace  to  Beachy  Head  with  only  four 
iecks ! 

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Five!  said  Mr.  Hudson.  It  was  like  the  crack  of  doom;  like 
the  deep  voice  of  a  raven ;  like  the  sound  of  a  direful  bell. 

Belloc:  Only  four  checks!  There's  Woking,  and  Cucking!  and 
Ducking  and      .      .      . 

"Five!"  said  Mr.  Hudson. 

Belloc:  Only  four  checks!  (He  used  a  great  many  gesticula- 
tions, telling  the  names  off  on  his  fingers  in  the  French  way.)  There 
are  Woking  and  Cucking  and  Ducking  and  Hickley      ... 

"Five!"  said  Mr.   Hudson. 

Mr.  Belloc  repeated  the  queer  names  of  Sussex  villages.  Then 
Mr,  Hudson  said: 

"East  Dean!"  Mr.  Belloc  threw  his  hand  violently  over  his  head 
as  one  used  to  see  people  do  on  the  Western  front :  then  began  to 
tear,  immediately  afterwards,  at  his  ruffled  hair.  He  exclaimed  "My 
God!  What  a  fool  I  am!"  and  stated  that  he  was  a  Sussex  man: 
bred  and  born  in  Sussex:  had  never  been  out  of  Sussex  for  an  hstant 
in  his  life:  had  ridden  every  day  from  the  Crystal  Palace  to  Jeachy 
Head.    Yet  he  had  forgotten  East  Dean. 

AH  the  while  Mr.  Hudson  sat  motionless:  grave:  unwinking:  gaz- 
ing at  his  victim  with  the  hypnotic  glare  of  a  beast  of  prey.  O  as  if 
he  were  studying  a  new  specimen  of  the  genus  Fringillago ! 


And  I  dare  say  that  is  how  Mr.  Hudson  "gets  his  effects":  pzing 
at  his  subject  with  the  expressionless  passion  of  a  bird  of  prey: keep- 
ing as  still  as  a  tree:  and  then  cutting  down  words  to  nothing.  For 
the  three  words:  the  reiterated  "Five"  and  the  final  "East  Dan," 
convinced  one  that  Mr.  Hudson  had  lived  on  the  South  Dowis  all 
his  life  and  that  you  could  trust  him  to  take  you  from  Brambr  to 
Findon  in  pitch  black  night.  Whereas  the  thousands  of  words  that 
Mr.  Belloc  poured  out  only  made  you  doubt  that  he  had  ever  ben  in 
Sussex  in  his  life. 

Of  course  Mr.  Belloc  has  lived  in  Sussex  for  a  great  part  of  hi; life, 
and  Mr.  Hudson  was  born  in  the  Argentine,  of  New  England  tock 
— about  1790,  I  should  say.     I  have  heard  him  allege  that  whn  he 

The    Little     R  e  v  i  e 

came  to  England  he  was  the  first  member  of  his  family  to  set  foot  on 
these  Islands  for  250  years.  So  maybe  he  descends  from  the  Navi- 
gator. At  any  rate  from  those  facts  which  may  or  may  not  be  facts — 
for  as  to  the  real  date  of  Mr.  Hudson's  birth  I  have  only  impressions; 
as  for  instance  having  heard  him  talk  in  terms  of  great  intimacy  of 
the  Dictator  Bolivar  who  flourished  about  1820.  .  .  .  But 
then  we  can  read  "Far  Away  and  Long  Ago!" — so  that  at  any  rate 
from  these  facts,  of  Argentine  birth,  long  absence  from  this  country, 
immemorial  antiquity,  quietude  and  the  exact  habit  of  mind,  we  mav 
get  certain  glimpses  of  Mr.  Hudson's  secret.  For  Mr.  Hudson  is  a 
secret  and  mysterious  alchemist  just  as  much  as,  or  much  more  than. 
Dr.  Dewar. 

Perhaps,  owing  to  his  Argentine  birth  and  long  racial  absence  from 
these  Islands,  Mr.  Hudson  has  escaped  the  infection  of  the  slippy, 
silly  way  we  handle  the  language :  he  has  escaped  the  Authorized 
Version  and  the  Morte  d'Arthur  and  someone's  Rabelais  and  some- 
one else's  Montaigne  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  "Urn  Burial,"  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  (I  may  as  well  put  down  here  what  1  meant  when 
I  said  just  now  that  Stephen  Crane  said  the  most  illuminating  thing 
I  ever  heard  as  to  the  English  prose  of  to-day.  He  was  talking  about 
the  author  of  "Travels  in  the  Cevennes  with  Mr.  Colvin" — or  what- 
ever the  title  was,  and  he  said:  "By  God!  when  Stevenson  wrote: 
'With  interjected  finger  he  delayed  the  action  of  the  time  piece,'  when 
he  meant  *he  put  the  clock  back,'  Stevenson  put  back  the  clock  of 
English  fiction  150  years."  .  .  .  Stevenson,  as  you  know,  was 
the  sedulous  ape  of  Walter  Pater  or  someone  like  that,  and  decked 
himself  out  in  allusions,  borrowed  words,  stolen  metaphors,  inversions 
and  borrowed  similes  for  all  the  world  like  Charles  Lamb  or  a 
Tommy  coming  back  to  the  Line  hung  about  with  souvenirs).  Well, 
Mr.  Hudson  has  escaped  all  that.  You  would,  as  I  have  said,  think 
he  had  never  read  a  book  in  his  life.  Certainly  he  never  read  a  book 
and  carried  off  a  phrase  like  "interjected  finger"  to  treasure  it  as  Ole 
Bill  might  treasure  an  Iron  Cross  raped  from  the  breast  of  General 
Humpfenstrumpfen,  lately  deceased.  Then  too,  born  in  the  Argen- 
tine in  remote  ages,  Mr.  Hudson  had  the  advantage  of  seeing  the  light 
in  a  Latin  country — at  least  1  suppose  seventeenth  centurj'  Argentina 

10  TheLittlekevie 


was  a  Latin  country — and  so  he  was  among  a  population  who  used 
words  for  the  expression  of  thoughts.  For,  among  us  Occidentals,  it 
is  only  the  Latin  races  who  use  words  as  clean  tools,  exactly,  with 
decency  and  modesty.  You  may  see  the  same  in  the  prose  of  Mr. 
Cunninghame  Graham  who  was  also  of  South  American  origin  and 
is  the  only  other  true  proseateur  of  these  islands,  since  Mr.  Conrad 
writes  not  English  but  literal  translations  from  unpublished  Frencli 
originals.  (I  suppose  I  ought  to  put  in  somewhere,  "present  com- 
pany always  excepted" — for  the  sake  of  politeness  to  possible  readers!) 
And  then  again,  being  the  first  of  his  family  to  visit  England  for 
2,500  years  or  whatever  it  was,  Mr.  Hudson  has  the  advantage  of 
being  the  first  English  writer  to  see  this  country — for  at  least  that 
period.  Just  as  he  has  escaped  our  slippy  use  of  the  language  so  hv* 
has  escaped  our  slippy  way  of  looking  at  a  hill,  a  flower,  a  bird,  an  ivy 
leaf.  Yesterday  1  picked  the  first  cuckoo  flower  and  the  first  kingcup 
of  the  year.  When  I  got  my  hand  well  on  the  stem  of  the  first  I 
exclaimed : 

"When  lady  smocks  all  silver  white 
Do  tint  the  meadows  with  delight 

1  daresay  I  was  misquoting,  but  I  telt  proud  of  myself  and  didn't 
look  at  the  flower. 

When  I  grabbed  the  kingcup  I  said : 

"Shine  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  grey."  And  I  felt  proud  of 
myself  and  didn't  look  at  the  flower. 

When  I  hear  my  first  skylark  I  shall  spout: 

"Hail  to  thee  blithe  spirit, 
Bird  thou  never  wast. 

imd  for  the  nightingale  it  will  be:  "Most  musical;  most  melancholy!" 
and   I  shan't  much  look  at,  or  listen  to,  either  fowl. 
And  it  is  the  same  with  all  us  English  writers. 

For  again  there  is  the  question  of  this  alchemist's  great  age.  Actu- 
ally I  believe  Mr.  Hudson  lately  celebrated  his  seventieth  birthday. 
1  have  however  known  him  for  twenty-five,  twenty-four  or  twenty- 

The     Little     Review  11 

thjcc  years,  and  when  I  first  met  him  he  was  eighty-two  and  told 
personal  anecdotes  of  the  Court  of  George  Washington.  What  I 
mean  by  all  this  fantasia  is  that  Mr.  Hudson  has  an  air  of  consum- 
mate and  unending  permanence  wherever  he  may  happen  to  be,  a 
weather  worn  air  as  of  an  ancient  tree,  an  ancient  wag,  a  very  old 
peasant.  Wherever  you  find  him  he  will  seem  to  have  been  there  for 
ages  and  to  be  time-stained  to  the  colour  of  the  hedgerows,  the 
heather,  the  downs  or  the  country  folic.  So  he  fits  in  and  trees, 
birds,  or  shepherds  are  natural  when  he  is  about.  Mr.  Hudson  him- 
self is  conscious  of  the  fact,  for  he  writes  of  Wiltshire  in  the  opening 
pages  of  the  "Shepherd's  Life":  "Owing  to  a  certain  kind  of  adaptive- 
ness  in  me,  a  sense  of  being  at  home  wherever  the  grass  grows,  I  am  in 
a  vay  a  native  of  Wiltshire  too."  ....  And  he  is  a  native  of 
Argentina,  and  La  Plata,  and  Patagonia  and  Hampshire  and  the 
Sussex  downlands — wherever  the  grass  grows.  That  is  perhaps  the 
best  gift  that  has  been  given  to  him  by  the  Good  God  who  has  made 
him  such  a  great  poet.  For  simple  people,  shepherds,  bird-catchers, 
girls  wheeling  perambulators,  old  women  cleaning  front  stones.  South 
American  Dictators,  gamblers,  duellists,  birds,  beasts  and  reptiles, 
have  been  natural  before  him ;  and  the  green  earth  and  the  sombre 
trees  and  the  high  downs  and  the  vast  Pampas  have  been  just  them- 
selves before  him.  He  looked  at  them  with  the  intent  gaze  of  the 
birJ  of  prey  and  the  abandonment  of  the  perfect  lover. 


Twenty-five  years  ago — really  twenty-five  years  ago — I  lay  on  mv 
back  on  the  top  of  the  great  shoulder  of  the  downs  above  Lewes — 
looking  into  the  crystalline  blue  of  the  sky.  There  drifted  above  me 
frail,  innumerable,  translucent,  to  an  immense  height,  one  shining 
above  the  other,  like  an  innumerable  company  of  soap  bubbles — the 
globelike  seeds  of  dandelions,  moving  hardly  perceptibly  at  all  in  the 
still  sunlight.  It  was  an  unforgettable  experience.  .  .  .  And 
yet  it  wasn't  my  experience  at  all.  I  have  never  been  on  that  par- 
ticulai  downs  above  Lewes,  though  1  know  the  downs  very  well. 
And  yet  I  am  not  lying!     For  you  see,  in  the  90's  of  last  century,  I 

12  The    Little    Revie 


read  that  passage  in  "Nature  in  Downland" — and  it  has  become  part 
of  my  life.  It  is  as  much  part  of  my  life  as  my  first  sight  of  the 
German  lines  from  a  down  behind  Albert  in  1916  .  .  .  which 
is  about  the  most  unforgettable  of  my  own  experiences  in  the  flesh. 

So  Mr.  Hudson  has  given  me  a  part  of  my  life. 
Indeed,  I  have  a  whole  Hudson-life  alongside  my  own      .      .      .    and 
such  great  pleasure  with  it.     That  is  what  you  mean  when  you  say  a 
man  is  a  creator      ...      a  creative  artist.     He  gives  to  the  world 
vicarious  experience.     And  such  immense  pleasure! 

I  fancy  that  is  really  all  there  is  to  say — or  at  any  rate  what  most 
needs  saying  as  to  this  very  great  man.  I  believe  that,  until  quite 
lately  he  was  very  little  known  in  the  Literary  World — in  that  col- 
oured and  fantastic  cockpit  where  the  Great  Writers  vote  themselves' 
orders  or  diplomas,  searchlight  processions,  cenotaphs,  military  funer- 
als; and  whence  lesser  writers  cut  each  other's  throats  for  fourpencc 
and  go  up  to  Heaven  clinging  to  the  coat  tails  of  the  aforesaid  Great. 
But,  outside  that  world,  in  the  realm  of  the  mute,  Hudson  must  havf; 
had  a  great  many  readers.  I  talk  frequently  with  unlikely  men  in  un- 
likely places — with  farriers  in  France,  with  N'icars  in  hideous  North 
Country  towns,  with  doctors  and  chance  people  in  mines — about 
books.  The  Great  of  course  they  won't  have  heard  of ;  the  popular 
they  will  have  read  and  will  have  forgotten  or  confused.     But  if  you 

mention  Hudson  and  they  happen  to  have  read  Hudson 

Ah,  then  you  will  see  a  different  expression  on  their  faces!  You 
will  see  them  become  animated,  earnest,  with  eyes  alive  and  with 
looks  of  affection — as  one  does  of  some  one  who  is  great,  kind ;  who 
has  taught  one  a  great  deal ;  who  is  part  of  one's  family  and  of  oneself 
That  is  a  very  great,  a  very  splendid  position  to  hold. 


Poet  Strayed  into  Science 

by  Ezra  Pound 

HUDSON'S  art  begins  where  any  man's  art  is  felicitous  in 
beginning:  in  an  enthusiasm  for  his  subject  matter.  If 
we  begin  with  "The  Naturalist  in  La  Plata"  we  may  find 
almost  no  "art"  whatever ;  there  are  impassioned  passages, 
naive  literary  homages,  and  much  unevenness  and  a  trace 
of  rhetoric  in  the  writing.  "The  Shepherd's  Life"  must,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  scale,  be  art  of  a  very  high  order;  how  otherwise  would  one 
come  completely  under  the  spell  of  a  chaptei  with  no  more  startling 
subject  matter  than  the  cat  at  a  rural  station  of  an  undistinguished 
British  provincial  railway. 

Hudson  is  an  excellent  example  of  Coleridge's  theorem  "the  miracle 
that  can  be  wrought"  simply  by  one  man's  feeling  something  more 
keenly,  or  knowing  it  more  intimately  than  it  has  been,  before,  known. 
The  poet's  eye  and  comprehension  are  evident  in  the  first  pages  of 
"The  Naturalist":  the  living  ef^gies  in  bronze  rising  out  of  the  white 
sea  of  the  pampas.     Then  the  uneven  eloquence: 

"And  with  the  rhea  go  the  flamingo,  antique  and  splendid  ; 
and  the  swans  in  their  bridal  plumage  ;  and  the  rufous  tina- 
mou — sweet  and  mournful  melodist  of  the  eventide;  and  the 
noble  crested  screamer.  .  .  .  These,  and  the  other 
large  avians,  together  with  the  finest  of  its  mammalians, 
will  shortly  be  lost  to  the  pampas  utterly." 

"What  a  wail  there  would  be  in  the  world  if  a 
sudden  destruction  were  to  fall  on  the  accumulated  art- 
treasures  of  the  National  Gallery,  and  the  marbles  in  the 
British  Museum,  and  the  contents  of  the  King's  Library — 
the  old  prints  and  medi;v\al  illuminations!  And  these  are 
only  the  work  of  human  hands  and  brains — impressions  of 

14  The     Little     R 

e  V  I  e  w 

individual  genius  on  perishable  material,  immortal  only  in 
the  sense  that  the  silken  cocoon  of  the  dead  moth  is  so,  be- 
cause they  continue  to  exist  and  shine  when  the  artist's  hands 
and  brain  are  dust :  and  man  has  the  long  day  of  life  before 
him  in  which  to  do  again  things  like  these,  and  better  than 
these,  if  there  is  any  truth  in  evolution.  But  the  forms  of 
life  in  the  two  higher  vertebrate  classes  are  Nr.lure's  most 
perfect  work ;  and  the  life  of  even  a  single  species  is  of  in- 
calculably greater  value  to  mankind,  for  what  it  teaches 
and  would  continue  to  teach,  than  all  the  chiselled  mar'les 
and  painted  canvases  the  world  contains;  though  doubtless 
there  are  many  persons  who  are  devoted  to  art,  but  blind 
to  s  me  things  greater  than  art,  who  will  set  me  down  as 
a  Philistine  for  saying  so. 

"And,  above  all  others,  we  should  protect  and  hold 
sacred  those  types.  Nature's  masterpieces,  which  are  first 
singled  out  for  destruction  on  account  of  their  size,  or 
splendour,  or  rarity,  and  that  false  detest,  ble  glory  which  is 
accorded  to  their  successful  slayers.  In  ancient  times  the 
spirit  of  life  shone  brightest  in  these;  and  when  others  that 
shared  the  earth  with  them  were  taken  by  death,  they  were 
left,  bein-z  more  worthy  of  perpetuati(,n." 

One  may  put  aside  quibbles  of  precedence,  whatever  the  value  of 
evidence  of  man's  fineness,  and  in  an  age  of  pestilence  like  our  own 
there  is  li.ttle  but  the  great  art  of  the  past  to  convince  one  that  the 
human  species  deserves  to  continue ;  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between 
the  archaeologist  who  wishes  to  hear  the  "music  of  the  lost  dynasty," 
or  the  gracious  tmies  of  the  Albigeoius,  and  tlie  man  who  is  so  filled 
with  a  passion  of  the  splendour  of  wild  things,  of  wild  birds  which: 

"Like  irnmortal  flowers  have  drifted  down  to  us  on  the 
ocean  of  time  .  .  .  and  their  strangeness  and  beauty 
bring  to  our  irnaginations  a  dream  and  a  picture  of  that  un- 
known world,  immeasurably  far  removed,  where  man  was 
not;  and  \yhen  they  perish,  ^orqething  of  gladness  goes  out 

T  he    Lit  t  le     Review  15 

from  nature,  and  the  sunshine  loses  something  of  its  bright- 


The  voice  is  authentic.     It  is  the  priesthood  of  nature.     Yet  if  an 
anthropologist  may  speak  out  of  his  pages  to  the  "naturalist,"  it  is 
not  only  the  bird  and  furred  beast  that  suffer.     A  bloated  usury,  a 
cowardly  and  snivelling  politics,  a  disgustmg  financial  system,  the 
saddistic  curse  of  Christianity  work  together,  not  only  that  an  hun- 
dred species  of  wild  fowl  and  beast  shall  give  way  before  the  advance 
of  industry,  i.  e.,  that  the  plains  be  covered  with  uniform  and  vermin- 
ous sheep,  bleating  in  perfect  social  monotony;  but  in  our  alleged 
"society"   the  same   tendencies   and   the  same   urge   that   the  bright 
plumed  and  the  fine  voiced  species  of  the  genus  anthropos,  the  favoured 
of  the  gods,  the  only  part  of  humanity  worth  saving,  is  attacked.    The 
milkable  human  cows,  the  shearable  human  ^heep  are  invited  by  the 
exploiters,  and  all  other  regarded  as  caput  lupinum,  dangerous:  lest 
the  truth  should  shine  out  in  art,  which  ceases  to  be  art  and  degen- 
erates into  religion  and  cant  and  superstition  as  soon  as  it  has  tax- 
gathering  priests;   lest   works  comparable   to   the  Cretan  vases  and 
Assyrian  lions  should  be  reproduced  and  superseded. 

There  is  no  quarrel  between  the  artist  and  Mr.  Hudson,  and  he 
is  right  in  saying  that  there  would  be  more  "'wail"  over  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  British  Museum  than  over  the  destruction  of  wild  species. 
Yet  how  little  the  "public"  cares  for  either.  And  how  can  it  be  ex- 
pected to  care  so  long  as  so  much  of  it  is  "at  starvation  level,"  so  long 
as  men  are  taught  that  work  is  a  virtue  rather  than  enjoyment,  and 
so  long  as  men  render  lip  service  to  a  foul  institution  which  has  per- 
petuated the  writing  of  TertuUien  and  of  men  who  taught  that  the 
human  body  is  evil. 

As  long  as  "Christendom"  is  permeated  with  the  superstition  that 
the  human  body  is  tainted  and  that  the  senses  are  not  noble  avenues 
of  "illumination,"  where  is  the  basis  of  a  glory  in  the  colour-sense 
without  which  the  birds-wings  are  unapprehended,  or  of  audition 
without  which  the  bell-cry  of  the  crested  screamers  is  only  a  noise  in 
the  desert. 

^^  T  he    Little    Re  vie 

"Their  strangeness  and  their  beauty"  may  well  go  unheeded  into 
desuetude  if  there  be  nothing  to  preserve  tnem  but  usurers  and  the 
slaves  of  usury  and  an  alleged  religion  which  has  taught  the  supreme 
he  that  the  splendour  of  the  world  is  not  a  true  splendour,  that  it  is 
not  the  garment  of  the  gods;  and  which  has  glorified  the  vilest  of 
human  imaginations,  the  pit  of  the  seven  great  stenches,  and  which 
still  teaches  the  existence  of  this  hell  as  a  verity  for  the  sake  of  scaring 
little  children  and  stupid  women  and  of  collecting  dues  and  maintain- 
ing its  prestige. 

My  anger  has  perhaps  carried  me  away  from  Hudson  who  should 
have  been  my  subject;  yet  his  anger  is  germane  to  it.  Mediaeval 
Christianity  had  one  merit,  it  taught  that  usury  was  an  evil.  But  in 
our  day  Rockefeller  and  the  churches  eat  from  the  one  manger,  and 
the  church  has  so  far  fallen  into  vacuity  that  it  does  not  oppose 
"finance,"  which  is  nothing  but  a  concatenation  of  usuries,  hardly 
subtle,  but  subtle  enough  to  gull  the  sheep  and  cow  humans. 

And  for  the  same  system  man  is  degraded,  and  the  wild  beasts 
destroyed.  So  I  have  perhaps  not  lost  my  subject  after  all,  but  only 
extended  my  author's  exordium. 


The  foregoing  paragraphs  can  hardly  be  taken  as  introduction  to 
Mr.  Hudson's  quiet  charm.  He  would  lead  us  to  South  America; 
despite  the  gnats  and  mosquitoes  we  would  all  perform  the  voyage 
for  the  sake  of  meeting  a  puma,  Chimbica,  friend  of  man,  the  most 
loyal  of  wildcats.  And,  as  I  am  writing  chis  presumably  for  an 
audience,  more  or  less  familiar  with  my  predilections,  familiar  with 
my  loathing  of  sheep,  my  continual  search  for  signs  of  intelligence  in 
the  human  race,  it  should  be  some  indication  of  Hudson's  style  that 
it  has  carried  even  me  through  a  volume  entitled  "A  Shepherd's  Life," 
a  title  which  has  no  metaphorical  bearing,  but  deals  literally  with  the 
subject  indicated. 

"Caleb's  shepherding  period  in  Doveton  came  to  a  some- 
what sudden  conclusion.  It  was  nearing  the  end  of  August 
3nd  he  was  beginning  to  think  about  the  sheep  which  would 

T  h  e    Little    Review  17 

have  to  be  taken  to  the  'Castle'  sheep-fair  on  5th  October, 
and  it  appeared  strange  to  him,"  etc. 

John  B.  Yeats  has  written  somewhere:  "I  found  that  I  was  inter- 
ested in  the  talk,  not  of  those  who  told  me  interesting  things,  so  much 
as  of  those  who  were  by  natural  gift  truthful  tellers" ;  a  phrase  which 
is  as  good  a  qualification  of  Hudson's  work  as  I  can  find.  Hudson's 
books  are  indeed  full  of  interesting  things,  of  interesting  "informa- 
tion," yet  it  is  all  information  which  could,  like  all  information  what- 
soever, have  been  made  dull  in  the  telling.  But  the  charm  is  in  Hud- 
son's sobriety.  I  doubt  if,  apart  from  the  "Mayor  of  Casterbridge," 
and  "The  Noble  Dames,"  and  the  best  of  Hardy,  there  is  anything 
so  true  to  the  English  countryside  as  Hudson's  picture.  F.  M. 
Hueffer  must  not  be  forgotten;  there  is  his  "Heart  of  the  Country," 
and  passages  in  other  of  his  books  to  maintain  the  level ;  and  Hueffer 
is  perhaps  at  his  best  when  he  approaches  most  closely  to  Hudson's 
subject  matter;  when  he  is  least  clever,  when  he  is  most  sober  in  his 
recording  of  country  life. 

This  is  not  however  an  arranging  of  hierarchies  and  an  awarding 
of  medals  for  merit.  Hudson  touches  Hueffer  when  dealing  with 
England  and  Cunninghame  Graham  in  dealing  with  La  Plata.  And 
it  is  very  foolish  to  wail  over  the  decadence  of  English  letters  merely 
because  some  of  the  best  work  of  these  three  men  is  possibly  ten  years 

It  is  perhaps  faddism  and  habit  that  causes  people  still  to  gossip  of 
Poe,  when  "El  Ombu"  has  been  written,  not  as  a  grotesque  but  as 
tragic  elegy,  as  the  ordered  telling  of  life  as  it  must  have  happened. 
And  then  Poe's  prose?  Poe's  prose  is  as  good  as  Hudson's  in  places, 
and  Hudson  is  indubitably  uneven;  relieved  if  not  by  hokkus  at  least 
by  the  sense  of  the  "special  moment"  which  makes  the  hokku:  thus  his 
trees  like  images  of  trees  in  black  stone. 

This  image-sense  is  an  enrichment,  perhaps  "dangerous"  to  the 
unity  of  his  style,  but  very  welcome  to  the  lover  of  revelation.  And 
to  balance  it  there  is  the  latent  and  never  absent  humour  as  in  "Marta 

"What  is,  is;  and  if  you  talk  until  to-morrow  you  can  not  make  it 
different,  ftlthough  ^ov  may  prove  yo\»r$eIf  a  y?ry  learned  person." 


JV.  H.  Hudson 

by    yohn  Rodker 

R.HUDSON  is  a  great  writer,  though  not  always  a 
perfect  writer.  His  mask  of,  and  his  preoccupation 
with,  the  "natural-man"  would  have  become  in  time, 
I  do  not  doubt,  as  tedious  as  Henry  James's  continual 
fuss  with  trivial  relationships,  had  not  Hudson's  entire 
output  been  so  small  that  a  week  would  be  ample  to  get  through  it.* 
His*' lapses;  ovariotomised  Burne- Jones's  maidens,  good-hearted 
bouTtder  (but  a  perfect  dear  au  fond),  (the  natural-man  again)  too 
mufeh' Exploited  since  by  Mr.  Wells;  a  Blake  like  "Father-of-the- 
Hotr^e"  belong  all  to  his  novel,  "A  Crystal  Age."  Other  works  are 
free  from  them,  for  Hudson  sprang  full  armed  into  literature  with  a 
first  novel,  "The  Purple  Land,"  somewhere  in  his  thirties.  One  does 
not  therefore  talk  about  development  when  discussing  Mr.  Hudson. 
Each  new  book,  however  different  from  itj,  predecessor,  is  yet  well 
within  his  capacity.  Flaubert,  who  started  svith  "Madam  Bovary" 
at  about  the  same  period  in  life,  can  be  definitely  said  to  have  devel- 
oped ;  but  'The  Purple  Land"  is  in  many  ways  more  satisfying  than 
"El  Oinbu"  or  "A  Crystal  Age";  I  do  not  know  when  "A  Crystal 
Age"  was  written.  It  is  magnificent  and  ingenuous  in  turns,  its 
denouement  appalling. 

Mr.  Pound  says  somewhere  that  no  tragedy  is  complete  unless  it  be 
contrasted  with  an  equally  plausible  happy-endini.  He  should  ap- 
prove then  of  Mr.  Hudson  who  to  the  most  violent  tragedy  opposes 
beatific  probabilities.  Both  "A  Crystal  Age"  and  "Green  Mansions" 
contain  unnecessary  and  therefore  tragical  tragedy  of  a  violence  to 
stun  the  reader.  The  epilogue  to  Turgenev's  "Fathers  and  Children" 
seems  to  mc  most  like  them.  Both  writers  have  much  in  common. 
Each  has  the  same  ease  in  handling  his  medium,  the  same  limpidity'; 
each  the  same  confidence  and  kindliness.     Their  brains,  too,  are  per- 

*I  note  that   Mr.  Hudson  had  various  scientific  ragpograph?  on  the  flora 
and  fauna  of  South  America  to  his  credit. 

T  he    Lit  tie    Review  19 

fectly  adequate  but  not  quite  such  cutting  instruments  that  they  can 
take  liberties  with  them. 

In  England  Hudson  shares  only  with  Conrad  the  laurels  of  writing. 
Both  are  foreigners.  It  should  by  now  be  an  axiom  that  only  foreign- 
ers can  write  a  live  English.  Their  senses  are  not  dulled  by  tradi- 
tional thought-forms.  New  institutions  give  them  seriously  to  think! 
Their  brains  are  brand  new  and  respond  immediately  to  the  new 
life.  English  is  four  continents  and  what  more  natural  than  that 
they  should  be  seduced  into  writing  that  language. 

Conrad  too,  is  preoccupied  with  the  "natural-man,"  a  variant  on 
the  "inspired-idiot"  which  certainly  seems  to  be  an  indispensable  in- 
gredient in  great^Iiterature. 

Perhaps  this  is  why  (both  being  natural-men)  they  see  women 
stereoscopically — very  solid — once  planted — planted  for  good  ;  a  tight 
little  bomb  of  the  best  explosive.  Her  curious  immobility,  dreading, 
yearning,  for  the  spark  that  will  send  her  sky  high. 

Again,  so  easily  is  the  "natural-man"  identified  with  one's  own  im- 
pulses that  his  mere  bow  from  however  remote  a  stage  will  send  the 
gallery  rocking.  Like  that  wasp  who  to  paralyse  his  victim  must 
sting  it  only  at  nine  fixed  places,  and  must  therefore  identify  himself 
with  it,  so  Mr.  Hudson  identifies  his  creations,  and  his  "natural-men" 
with  the  "libido"  of  his  readers. 

Mr.  Hudson  can  therefore  afford  to  do  his  writing  on  the  generous 
side.  If  the  phrase  will  about  do,  that  is  good  enough.  The  things  he 
wants  to  say  are  concrete  things,  vital  things,  and  it  follows  neces- 
sarily that  his  writing  will  be  vital.  Everybody  has  seen  these  things, 
or  at  any  rate  the  next  best  thing.  His  job  is  rather  to  evoke  pictures 
than  to  create  them.  And  once  he  has  registered  what  he  wants  to 
note  his  interest  lapses.  Were  Mr.  Hudson  less  of  the  "natural- 
man"  he  would  have  created  a  conscious  art  rather  than  an  inspired 
one — an  art  not  perhaps  altogether  satisfactory,  but  v(rhy  quarrel  with 
him  because  he  does  not  want  to  write  a  temptation  of  Saint  Anthony. 
In  his  own  person  Mr.  Hudson  points  the  moral  of  the  vital  decay 
in  English  letters  during  the  last  century^  the  bored  policeman  and  a 
life  in  towns  being  its  probable  causes.    Certain  it  is  that  only  Mr, 

20  The    Little    Review 

Cunninghame  Graham  or  Conrad  can  be  conceived  of  as  writing  the 
following  passage,  remarkable  only  in  its  very  palpable  "natural- 
manness."  For  strangely  enough  I  do  not  know  even  one  war  book 
which  has  had  the  vigour  to  say  it  likes  killing  either  as  retribution  or 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  His  hero  has  just  killed  a  man  who  was 
about  to  disembowel  him.  "Joy  at  the  terrible  retribution  I  had  been 
able  to  inflict  on  the  murderous  wretch  was  the  only  emotion  I  ex- 
perienced when  galloping  away  into  the  darkness — such  joy  that  I 
could  have  sung  and  shouted  aloud  had  it  not  seemed  imprudent  t^ 
indulge  in  such  expressions  of  feeling." 

This  is  surely  the  authentic  Billy  Farnum  touch.  The  Wild  West 
endeared  to  an  anaemic  population  with  nothing  on  which  to  whet 
its  appetites.  It  is  in  another  way  Voltaire's  "L'Ingenue."  High 
and  low  intelligences  alike  are  seduced  by  it.  Indeed  the  natural-man 
is  our  hippopotamus.  We  regard  it  as  did  Butler — to  our  febrile 
brains  infinitely  restful  in  the  deliberate  processes  of  his  growth,  his 
solid  grip  on  earth.  And  when  the  natural-man  is  projected  upon 
vast  flowing  pampas  or  sea  the  effect  is  psychologically  as  well  as 
physically  bracing.  New  vitality  flows  in.  The  artist  has  tapped  a 
natural  spring  which  we  feed  ourselves  continually.  The  difficulty 
then  of  forming  an  estimate  of  the  work  of  Mr.  Hudson  is  insuper- 
able.    At  every  stage  one  is  seduced  by  an  instinctive  delight. 

At  the  same  time  (and  it  may  be  unreasonably)  one  feels  without 
knowing  exactly  where  and  when  that  Mr.  Hudson  might  have  de- 
veloped a  keener  insight,  with  more  bitterness  or  ambition  in  his 
method.  I  myself  feel  always  that  however  much  Hudson  gets  out 
of  his  subject  he  does  not  quite  get  all.  It  is  this  irreducible  residue 
which  makes  Hudson  almost  but  never  quite  intense  enough.  One 
does  not  feel  this  about  Turgenev,  Tchekhov,  Conrad. 

It  is  perhaps  here  that  Mr.  Hudson's  natural-man  is  not  natural 
enough.  He  has  become  a  little  too  unsophisticated,  his  gaze  has 
been  withdrawn  from  his  navel  and  now  scans  the  skies.  That  he 
can  show  these  qualities  is  evident,  for  there  is  a  perfect  chapter  in 
the  Art  of  Calculated  Reven'jc  in  "GfRen  Mansions,"  but  it  appears 
to  be  a  feeling  of  which  he  Is  ashamed.     It  ^oes  not  occur  again.    Mr 

yj,  H:  D3.yi?^§  ^^h9  p^sse^^^^^s.  but  in  fl'lfcr-Rt  P'^^'^portiQn?'  th?  quaii- 

T  he    Little    Review  21 

ties  of  Hudson,  by  a  g^d  admixture  of  the  qualities  hate,  ambition, 
etc.,  conveys  a  denser  impression. 

Perhaps  the  quality  of  ambition  is  not  compatible  with  so  absorbed 
an  interest  in  the  Brute  Creation  as  Mr.  Hudson  shows.  He  has 
spent  so  much  time  in  proving  them  not  dumb  (in  a  series  of  books 
each  more  charming  than  the  last),  marvelling  at  the  unanimity  of 
their  instincts,  their  beauty  and  intelligence,  that  the  study  of  man 
was  neglected.  It  is  a  study  that  may  of  course  grow  in  intensity  the 
more  it  is  neglected,  your  solitary  being  quite  the  most  entertaining 
critic  of  man;  but  in  this  case  it  has  made  Mr.  Hudson  too  toler- 
ant of  man  or  too  sorry  for  him  to  wish  to  scourge  or  flay  him. 
Men's  treatment  of  the  aigret  inspires  him  to  a  noble  fury,  but  where 
man  is  concerned — dare  we  say  it — Mr.  Hudson  is  too  reasonable. 
He  would  no  doubt  reply  that  he  has  always  detested  vivisection. 

It  is  illuminating  to  compare  Mr.  Hudson  with  another  naturalist, 
Mr.  Fabre,  on  the  subject  of  "natural  selection,"  that  bugbear  of 
biology.     Remember  that  Mr.  Hudson  was  born  seventy  years  ago, 
that  he  attained  manhood  in  the  full  flood  of  materialism — Huxley, 
Spencer,  and  a  world  settling  down  to  an  implicit  faith  in  Darwinism. 
Just  as  before  Copernicus  men  saw  the  universe  as  so  many  candles 
to  light  earth,  Darwin  and  his  disciples  saw  m  the  brute  creation  so 
many  adaptations  and  curious  instincts  which  could  be  interpreted  en- 
tirely anthroraorphically.     For  instance,  when  Mr.  Hudson,  discuss- 
ing the  habits  of  cattle,  suggests  that  the  dying  animal  is  killed  by  the 
herd  in  a  panic-stricken  attempt  to  save  it  from  the  clutches  of  an 
invisible  enemy,  he  is  only  too  reasonable.    But  surely  this  very  reason- 
ableness is  in   itself  suspect.     A  human   explanation  will  satisfy  a 
human  mind,  but  one  wants  something  more  convincing.     Obviously, 
since  we  have  only  our  minds,  there  is  no  means  of  knowing  save 
only  by  that  community  of  instinct  which  enables  the  wasp  to  sting 
its  caterpillar  in  nine  places,, and  those  the  only  possible  nine  places. 
A  reason  which  is  as  good  an  explanation  as  that  will  alone  satisfy  us. 
Our  tribute  to  Mr.   Hudson  must  be  that  his   reasons  are   always 
amazingly  plausible  and  show  a  great  wealth  of  poetic  vision. 
Again  Mr.  Hudson: — 

"Why  or  how  animals  come  to  be  possessed  of  the  power  of  emit- 


The    Little    Review 

ting  pestiferous  odours  is  a  mystery:  we  only  see  that  natural  selection 
has  in  some  instances,  chiefly  among  insects.'taken  advantage  of  it  to 
furnish  some  of  the  weaker,  more  unprotected  species  with  a  means 
of  escape  from  their  enemies."  This  is  very  cautious,  but  even  so  the 
converse  of  the  proposition  is  equally  true,  but  one  has  to  realise  how 
very  important  a  credo  was  the  Darwinian  theory  to  our  fathers,  to 
understand  how  harsh  a  tyranny  it  exerted  on  even  the  best  minds. 

Hear  Fabre  on  the  same  subject— not  so  much  the  natural-man,  he 
was  the  enraged  scientist.  His  tribute  was  to  stand  five  hours  in  a 
boiling  sun  feeding  a  wasp  with  caterpillars.  His  experiinents  with 
insects  were  holocausts,  yet  with  what  scorn  he  speaks  of  the  vivi- 
sector  Curiosity  only  will  explain  his  keenness,  though  he  was  not 
blind  to  esthetic  aspects  in  his  insects.  Whereas  Hudson  started  on 
his  researches  lured  by  the  beautiful  and  interesting-the  literary 
man's  science— Fabre  started  with  an  insane  curiosity  in  the  insect. 
Certainly  Fabre's  seems  the  more  vital  impulse. 

"Pour  ces  motifs  et  bien  d'autres,  je  repousse  la  theorie  moderne  de 
I'instinct  Je  n'y  vois  qu'un  jet  d'esprit  ou  la  naturaliste  de  cabinet 
peut  se  complaire,  lui  qui  faQonne  la  monde  a  sa  fantaisie;  mais  ou 
I'observateur;  aux  prises  avec  la  realite  des  choses,  ne  trouve  seneuse 
explication  a  rien  de  ce  qu'il  voit." 

And  again: — 

"L'insecte  aurait-il  acquis  son  savoir-faire  petit  a  petit  d'une  genera- 
tion a  la  suivante,  par  une  longue  suite  d'essais  fortuits,  de  tatonne- 
ments  aveugles?  Un  tel  ordre  naitrait-il  du  chaos;  une  telle  pre- 
vision du  hasard;  une  telle  sapience  de  I'insense?  Le  monde  est-il 
soumis  aux  fatalites  d'evolution  du  premier  atome  albumineux  qui  se 
coagula  en  cellule  ou  bien  est-il  regi  par  une  Intelligence  Plus  je 
vois,  plus  j'observe,  et  plus  cette  Intelligence  rayonne  derriere  le 
mystere  des  choses." 

This  explains  as  little  as  does  Hudson's  "natural  selection."     One 
has  a  god-the  other  "natural-selection":  to  the  natural-man  both  i 
am  afraid  will  be  uninteUigible.     What  is  clear,  however,  is  that  . 
Fabre  appears  to  have  been  more  profoundly  exercised  by  the  problems 

The    Little    Review  23 

he  was  up  against.  But  to  Hudson  (and  us)  it  seems  natural  for  a 
chapter  to  begin  with  a  strongly-smelling  kind  of  bumble-bee,  go  on 
to  the  skunk  and  then  to  the  deer  which  the  gauchos  believe  suffo- 
cates the  snake  by  running  rapidly  round  it  continually  emittmg  a 
stronger  smell. 

Mr  Hudson  is  eminently  the  literary  man  at  grips  with  nature; 
in  that  way  like  Havelock  Ellis.  The  result  seems  to  be  a  profit  and 
loss  account,  an  absorbed  concentration  is  replaced  by  a  cultured  m- 
terest,  authorities  are  cited,  relevances  nosed  out,  still  it  isn  t  the  real 
thing.     Occasionally  exciting  or  beautiful  passages  like  these  reward 

us: — 

"Riding  on  the  pampas  one  dark  evening  an  hour  after  sunset,  and 
passing  from  high  ground  overgrown  with  giant  thistles  to  a  low 
plain  covered  with  long  grass,  bordering  a  stream  of  water,  I  found  it 
all  ablaze  with  myriads  of  fireflies.    I  noticed  that  all  the  insects  gave 
out  an  exceptionally  large  brilliant  light,  which  shone  almost  steadi  y. 
The  long  grass  was  thickly  studded  with  them,  while  they  literally 
swarmed  in  the  air,  all  moving  up  the  valley  with  a  singularly  slow 
and  languid  flight.     When  1  galloped  down  into  this  river  of  phos- 
phorescent fire,  my  horse  plunged  and  snorted  with  alarm.     I  suc- 
ceeded at  length  in  quieting  him,  and  then  rode  slowly  through,  com- 
pelled to  keep  my  mouth  and  eyes  closed,  so  thickly  did  the  insects 
rain  on  to  mv  face.    The  air  was  laden  with  the  sickening  phosphorus 
smell  they  emit,  but  when  1  had  once  got  free  of  the  broad  fiery 
zone,  stretching  away  on  either  hand  for  miles  along  the  moist  valley, 
I  stood  still  and  gazed  back  for  some  time  on  a  scene  the  most  won- 
derful and  enchanting  I  have  ever  witnessed." 

On  Humming  Birds: 

"In  their  plumage,  as  Marten  long  ago  wrote,  nature  has  strained 
at  every  variety  of  effect  and  revelled  in  an  infinitude  of  modifica- 
tions How  wonderful  their  garb  is,  with  colours  so  varied,  so  in- 
tense yet  seemingly  so  evanescent!  the  glittering  mantle  of  powdered 
gold;  the  emerald  green  that  changes  to  velvet  black,  ruby  reds  and 
luminous  scarlets;  dull  bronze  that  brightens  and  burns  like  polished 

24  TheLittleReview 

brass,  and  pale  neutral  tints  that  kindle  to  rose  and  lilac-coloured 
flame.  And  to  the  glory  of  prismatic  colouring  are  added  feather 
decorations,  such  as  the  racket  plumes  and  downy  muffs  of  Spathura, 
the  crest  and  frills  of  Lophornis,  the  sapphire  gorget  burning  on  the 
snow-white  breast  of  Oreotrochilus,  the  fiery  tail  of  Cometes,  and, 
amongst  grotesque  forms,  the  long  pointed  crest  feathers,  representing 
horns,  and  flowing  white  beard  adorning  the  piebald  goat-like  face  of 

The  Novels  of  W.   H.   Hudson 

"The  Purple  Land"  is  his  first  and  one  of  his  most  engaging  books. 
Written  when  the  author  was  in  his  thirties,  it  is  remarkable  for  its 
women,  sketched  in  romantically  like  those  of  Turgenev,  yet  as  alive 
as  Madame  Bovary,  The  brilliancy  of  their  definition,  their  potential 
intensity,  is  a  quality  rare  in  the  writing  of  the  last  fifty  years.  The 
book  has  great  verve  and  is  obviously  the  reaction  of  a  highly  impres- 
sionable mind.  Demetria  and  Dolores  are  very  sister  to  the  women 
of  Conrad.  This  outlook  on  women  is  I  think  due  to  long  spells 
of  hard  work  and  absence  of  women  on  the  part  of  its  authors;  the 
continual  proximity  of  men  probably  helps. 

This  is  enough  to  make  even  the  shabbiest  women  sinister.  Within 
five  years  I  am  sure  women  of  this  type  will  form  the  basis  of  all 
women  in  fiction. 

It  is  full  of  adventure.  A  natural-man's  book.  The  great  heart  of 
the  American  public  should  wallow  in  it. 

"South  American  Sketches"  deals  with  the  same  tract  as  the  last 
book,  and  contains  five  stories  which  force  me  to  withdraw  much  of 
what  I  have  said  about  Mr.  Hudson's  incapacity  for  vice.  On  the 
other  hand,  these  stories  have  not  the  inevitability  of  the  great  story, 
but  they  are  the  next  best  things.  They  contain  quite  amazing  para- 

"It  happened  on  this  march,  about  a  month  before  the  end,  that 
a  soldier  named  Bracamonte  went  one  day  at  noon  to  deliver  a  letter 
from  his  captain  to  the  General.     Barboza  was  sitting  in  his  shirt 

T  he     Little     Revie^  25 

sleeves  in  his  tent,  when  the  letter  was  handed  to  him,  but  just  when 
he  put  out  his  hand  to  take  it,  the  man  made  an  attempt  to  stab  him. 
The  General,  throwing  himself  back,  escaped  the  blow,  then  instantly 
sprang  like  a  tiger  upon  his  assailant,  and  seizing  him  by  the  wrist, 
wrenched  the  weapon  out  of  his  hand  only  to  strike  it  quick  as  light- 
ning into  the  poor  fool's  throat.  No  sooner  was  he  down  than  the 
General,  bending  over  him  before  drawing  out  the  weapon,  called  to 
those  who  had  run  to  his  assistance  to  get  him  a  tumbler.  When, 
tumbler  in  hand,  he  lifted  himself  up  and  looked  upon  them,  they 
say  that  his  face  was  of  the  whiteness  of  iron  made  white  in  the 
furnace,  and  that  his  eyes  were  like  two  flames.  He  was  mad  with 
rage,  and  cried  out  with  a  loud  voice,  'Thus,  in  the  presence  of  the 
army  do  I  serve  the  wretch  who  thought  to  shed  my  blood!'  Then 
with  a  furious  gesture  he  threw  down  and  shattered  the  reddened 
glass,  and  bade  them  take  the  dead  man  outside  the  camp  and  leave 
him  stripped  to  the  vultures." 

These  stories  are  widely  varied  in  emotional  range.  Marta 
Riquelme  is  carefully  worked  up  to  a  terrible  denouement. 

"Green  Mansions"  should  keep  Mr.  Hudson's  name  alive  as  long 
as  English  is  spoken.  It  is  romanticism  carried  to  the  nth  power. 
Its  milieu  a  charmed  one.  Impossible  regrets  assail  the  reader,  a 
new  life  is  like  a  dream-series  superposed  upon  his  own.  Could  one 
see  reading  as  a  delight  and  the  inevitable  martian  to  be  introduced 
to  those  pleasures,  then  this  would  be  the  book.  No  other  novel  is  as 
lyrical.     It  is  too  good  to  write  about. 

"The  Crystal  Age"  is  a  Utopia,  pure  and  simple,  marred — or 
rather  made — just  a  little  ridiculous  by  its  too  palpable  Walter  Crane 
and  William  Morris-ness.  It  is,  however,  nobler  than  either  of  these 
specialists.  Reading  this  book  one  is  convinced  that  a  world  of 
neuters  would  be  nobler  than  this  we  inhabit,  and  the  extermination 
of  practically  the  entire  species  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  it. 
His  conception  of  tiny,  isolated  and  remote  colonies,  each  the  cus- 
todian of  some  infinitely  developed  form  of  art,  is  magnificent.  He 
is  a  great  dreamer. 

26  The    Little    Review 

"There  dwell  the  children  of  Coradine,  on  the  threshold  of  the 
wind-vexed  wilderness,  where  the  stupendous  columns  of  green  glass 
uphold  the  roof  of  the  House  of  Coradine;  the  ocean's  voice  is  in 
their  rooms,  and  the  inland-blowing  wind  brings  to  them  the  salt 
spray  and  yellow  sand  swept  at  low  tide  from  the  desolate  floors  of 
the  '^ea,  and  white  winged  birds  flying  from  the  black  tempest  scream 
aloud  in  their  shadowy  halls.     There,  from  the  high  terraces,  when 
the  moon  is  at  its  full,  we  see  the  children  of  Coradine  gathered 
together,  arrayed  like  no  others,   in  shining  garments  of  gossamer 
threads,  when,  like  thistle-down  chased  by  eddying  winds,  now  whirl- 
ing in  a  cloud,  now  scattering  far  apart,  they  dance  their  moonlight 
dances  on  the  wide  elaborate  floors;  and  coming  and  going  they  pass 
away,  and  seem  to  melt  into  the  moonlight,  yet  ever  to  return  again 
with  changeful  melody  and  new  measures.    And,  seeing  this,  all  these 
things  in  which  we  ourselves  excel  seem  poor  in  comparison,  becoming 
pale  in  our  memories.     For  the  wind  and  waves,  and  the  whiteness 
and  grace,  has  been  ever  with  them;  and  the  winged  seed  of  the 
thistle,  and  the  flight  of  the  gull,  and  the  storm-vexed  sea,  flowering 
in  foam,  and  the  light  of  the  moon  on  sea  and  barren  land,  have 
taught  them  this  art,  and  a  swiftness  and  grace  which  they  alone 

And  this — the  last  paragraph : — 

"Then  a  great  cry,  as  of  one  who  suddenly  sees  a  black  phantom, 
rang  out  loud  in  the  room,  jarring  my  brain  with  the  madness  of  its 
terror  and  striking  as  with  a  hundred  passionate  hands  on  all  the 
hidden  harps  in  wall  and  roof;  and  the  troubled  sounds  came  back 
to  me,  now  loud  and  now  low,  burdened  with  an  infinite  anguish  and 
despair,  as  of  voices  of  innumerable  multitudes  wandering  in  the  sun- 
less desolations  of  space,  every  voice  reverberating  anguish  and  des- 
pair ;  and  the  successive  reverberations  lifted  me  like  waves  and 
dropped  me  again,  and  the  waves  grew  less  and  the  sounds  fainter, 
then  fainter  still,  and  died  in  everlasting  silence." 

"A  Little  Boy  Lost"  is  a  charming  story  of  a  child  who  runs 
from  home.  The  plot  reminds  one  of  Kingslcy's  "Water  Babies." 
It  is  an  entertaining  book,  and  children  would  like  it,  since  it  is 
written  without  side. 

The    L  ft  tic     Review 


The   Nature  Books  of  W.    H.    Hudson 

These  are  numerous.  All  are  intensely  Interesting,  for  he  has  a 
tirelessly  inquisitive  mind.  Most  of  these  books  are  about  birds ;  he 
has  an  especial  sympathy  for  them.  Others  deal  with  English  villages 
— "A  Shepherd's  Life,"  and  so  on. 

The  South  American  books  give  us  solid  chunks  of  the  life.  For 
us  that  is  the  best  function  of  the  naturalist.  But  all  these  books 
will  amply  repay  their  reading,  and  I  do  not  doubt  in  remembered 
pleasure  and  the  vitality  drawn  from  the  projection  of  a  wild  life 
they  will  form  a  solid  record  for  the  future  as  permanent  as  anything 
we  have.  I  quoted  considerably  from  "The  Naturalist  in  La  Plata" 
at  the  beginning  of  this  essay,  but  to  deal  adequately  with  these  books 
would  need  another  essay.  I  feel  that  it  is  impossible  to  criticise 
another's  diary  (for  that  is  what  these  books  are)  ;  it  is  too  easy  to 
say  he  is  too  good,  or  too  evil,  or  not  enough  of  either  and  to  use 
that  as  a  jumping  board.  He  writes  with  charm  and  his  deductions 
are  often  profound  and  illuminating,  never  commonplace.  His  sin- 
cerity cannot  be  questioned. 

Th€  Naturalist  in  La  Plata    1892.     Chapman  and  Hall. 

( Reprinted ) 
Birds  in  a  Village 
Idle  Days  in  Patagonia 
British  Birds 
Birds  in  London 
Nature  in  Dowriland 
Birds  and  Man 

(Reprinted  1915) 
El  Ombu 

(South  American  Sketches" 
Hampshire  Days 
Afoot  in  England 
Green  Mansions 

1903.  John  Dent, 

1893.  Chapman  and  Hall. 

1893.  Chapman  and  Hall. 

1895.  Longmans  and  Co. 

1898.  Longmans    Green. 

1900.  Longmans  and  Co. 

1901.  Longmans  and  Co. 

1902.  Greenback  Liby. 

1903.     Longmans  and  Co. 

1903.  Hutchinson  and  Co. 

1904.  Duckworth. 


The    Little    R  ev  i  e 


A  Little  Boy  Lost 



A  Crystal  Age 


Fisher  Unwin. 

The  Land's  End 



A  Shepherd's  Life 



The  Purple  Land 



Adventures  Among 



Hutchinson  and  Co. 

Far  Away  and  Long  Ago 


J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons. 

Nine  Chinese  Poems  of  the 
T'ang  Dynasty 

^  /  (A.    D.   600—900) 

translated  by  JVitter  Bynner  and 
S,  C.  Kiang  Kang-Hu 

A     Spring    Morning 

by  Aieng  Hao-Jan 

MORNING  comes  sweet  to  a  sleeper  in  spring, 
Everywhere  round  him  the  singing  of  birds. 
And  yet  there  was  a  storm  last  night, 
And  I  wonder  how  many  flowers  were  broken. 

On   a   Lute 

by  Liu  Chang-Ch'ing 

The  seven  strings  are  like  the  voice 
Of  a  cold  wind  in  the  pines 
Singing  an  old  beloved  song 
Which  no  one  cares  for  any  more. 

T  he    Little    Review  29 

To   a   Strayed  M  u  si  ci  an 

(On  meeting  Li  Kuei  Nien  in  Chiang  Nan) 

by  Tu  Fu 

I  met  you  visiting  Prince  Ch'i 

And  often  at  Ts'ui's  have  heard  you  play, 

But  with  spring  nearly  done,  on  the  lower  Yang  Tsu, 

I  meet  you  again,  under  shaken  petals. 

A    Moonlight    Night 
by  Liu  Fang  P'ing 

When  the  moon  has  colored  half  the  house, 
With  the  North  Star  at  its  height  and  the  South  Star  setting, 
I  hear  the  first  announcement  of  the  warm  air  of  spring 
From  an  insect  singing  at  my  green  silk  window. 

A    New   Bride 

by  Wang  Chien 

On  the  third  day,  taking  place  to  cook, 

Washing  hands  for  the  maiden  soup, 

I  decide  that  not  mother-in-law 

But  husband's  young  sister  shall  taste  it  first. 

T  h  e   T  a  II  I  nn 

by   Wang  Chih-Huan 

Till  mountains  cover  the  white  sun 
And  oceans  drain  the  yellow  river, 
You  may  add  a  thousand  li*  to  your  vision 
By  climbing  one  more  case  of  stairs. 

f  ^  Chinese  n^ile,  a  II,  is  abQut  3^  thir4  of  j  mile  by  western  measure. 

30  T  h  e    Lit  t  le    Review 

The  Street   of  Swallows* 

by  Liu  Yii-Shi 

Grasses  grow  wild  by  the  Bridge  of  red  Birds, 
And  low  is  the  sun  in  the  Street  of  Swallows, 
Where  wings,  once  visiting  Wang  and  Hsieh, 
Flitter  now  through  humble  dwellings, 

*  A   Nan    King   street,   decayed   with   the  old   capital. 

As   I  face  the   Gov  em  men  t 

{to  Chang) 
by  Chu  Ching-Yii 

\  Out  go  the  great  red  waiting-hall  candles. 

Tomorrow  in  state  the  bride  faces  your  parents. 
She  has  finished  her  toilette,  she  asks  of  you  gently 
Whether  her  eyebrows  are  painted  in  fashion. 

*  On  the  eve  of  his  final  examination  the  poet  hanpily  addresses  his  friend  who 
has  received  the  degree  and  is  an  expert  in  the  subject. 

Climbing   to  Lo    Y  u    C  emet  ary* 

(Before  starting  for  Wu  Hsing) 
by  Til  Mu 

I  could  serve  in  a  good  reign,  but  not  now. 
The  lone  cloud  rather,  the  Buddhist  peace. 
And  I  mount,  before  fallowing  river  and  sea. 
Once  more  to  the  tomb  of  the  Emperor  Chao. 

*  Lo  Vu  is  in  a  suburb  of  HsiAn,  the  capital  of  the  T'ang  Dynasty.  Officials 
and  scholars  liked  being  in  the  capital  and  not  in  the  provinces.  But  here  is  one  dis- 
satisfied with  his  ruler  and  choosing  to  go  away. 



by  Maxwell  Bodenheim 

ALVIN  TOR  sat  in  his  floating  rowboat  and  read  the 
bible.  Green  waves  died  upon  each  other  like  a  cohesive 
fantasy.  Each  small  wave  rose  as  high  as  the  other  and 
ended  in  a  swan's  neck  of  white  interrogation.  Sunlight 
blinded  the  water  as  style  dazes  the  contents  of  a  poem, 
and  the  air  fell  against  one  like  a  soothing  religion.  The  bristling 
melancholia  of  pine-trees  lined  the  wide  river.  But  Alvin  Tor  sat 
in  his  floating  rowboat  reading  the  bible.  He  read  the  Songs  of 
Solomon  and  sensual  pantomine  made  a  taut  stage  of  his  face.  When 
not  reading  the  Songs  of  Solomon  he  was  as  staidly  poised  as  a  monk's 
folded  arms.  He  had  borrowed  the  colours  of  his  life  from  that  spec- 
trum of  hope  which  he  called  God.  Different  shades  of  green  leaves 
were,  to  him,  the  playful  jealousies  of  a  presence;  the  tossed  colours 
of  birds  became  the  light  gestures  of  a  lost  poet.  His  Swedish  peasant's 
face  had  singed  its  dimples  in  a  bit  of  sophistication,  but  his  eyes 
were  undeceived.  His  heart  was  a  secluded  soliloquy  transforming 
the  shouts  of  the  world  into  tinkling  surmises.  His  broad  nose  and 
long  lips  were  always  at  ease  and  his  ruddy  skin  held  the  texture  of 
fresh  bunting.  His  eyes  knew  the  unkindled  reticence  of  a  rustic  boy. 
This  man  of  one  mood  sat  in  his  floating  rowboat  and  read  the 
bible.  He  reached  the  mouth  of  the  river  and  drifted  out  to  sea. 
The  sea  was  a  menacing  lethargy  of  rhythm ;  green  swells  sensed  his 
rowboat  with  dramatic  leisure.  A  sea-gull  skimmed  over  the  water 
like  a  haphazard  adventure.  Looking  up  from  his  bible  Alvin  Tor 
saw  the  body  of  a  woman  floating  beside  his  boat.  With  one  jerk 
his  face  swerved  into  blankness.  The  tip  of  his  tongue  met  his 
upper  lip  as  though  it  were  a  fading  rim  of  reality ;  the  fingers  of 
one  hand  distressed  his  flaxen  hair.  The  woman  floated  on  her 
back  with  infinite  abandon.  Little  ripples  of  green  water  died 
fondling  her  body.  The  green  swells  barely  lifiting  her  were  great 
rhythms  disturbed  by  an  inert  discord.  Sunlight,  fumbling  at  her 
bpd^,  relinquished  its  colour,    Her  wet  brown  hair  had  a  drugged 

The     Little     Review 


gentility:  its  short  dark  curls  hugged  her  head  with  despondent 
understanding.  Her  face  had  been  washed  to  an  imperturbable 
transparency.  It  had  the  whiteness  of  reclining  foam  overcast  with 
a  twinge  of  green— the  sea  had  lent  her  its  skin.  Her  eyes  were 
limply  unworried  and  violated  to  gray  disintegration.  In  separated 
bits  of  outlines  the  remains  of  thinly  impudent  features  were  slipping 
from  her  face.  The  bloated  pity  of  black  and  white  garments  hid  her 
lean  body.  As  Alvin  Tor  watched  her,  tendrils  of  peace  gradually 
interfered  with  the  blankness  on  his  face.  His  lips  sustained  an 
unpremeditated  repose;  a  sensitive  compassion  dropped  the  sparks  of 
its  coming  into  his  eyes.  His  clothes  became  a  jest  upon  an  inhuman 
body.  The  earth  of  him  effortlessly  transcended  itself  in  the  gesture 
of  his  arm  flung  out  to  the  woman. 

"Impalpable  relic  of  a  soul,  the  spirit  you  held  must  have  severed 
its  shadow  to  preserve  you  forever  from  the  waves,"  he  said,  his  face 
blindfolded  with  ecstasy,  "for  you  grasp  the  water  with  immortal 
relaxation.  You  are  not  a  body — you  are  beauty  receding  into  a  re- 
sistless seclusion." 

"Kind  fool,  musically  stifling  himself  in  a  rowboat — made  kind  by 
the  desperate  tenderness  of  a  lie— you  are  serenading  the  chopped 
bodies  of  your  emotions,"  said  the  woman. 

Alvin  Tor's  face  cracked  apart  and  the  incredulously  hurrying 
ghost  of  a  child  nodded,  a  moment,  and  was  snuffed  out.  The  eyes 
of  an  ancient  man  drew  his  face  into  a  premonition  of  pain. 

"Mermaid  of  haunting  despondency,  what  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  the  symbol  of  your  emotions,"  the  woman  answered. 

"I  made  them  roses  stepped  upon  by  God,"  said  Alvin  Tor. 

"'I  am  the  symbol  of  your  emotions,"  said  the  woman. 

Alvin  Tor  heavily  dropped  his  raised  arm,  like  a  man  smashing  a 
trumpet.  Restless,  white  hands  compressed  the  ruddy  broadness  of 
his  face.  The  women  slid  into  the  green  swells,  like  exhausted  magic. 
Alvin  Tor  rowed  back  to  the  river  bank. 

A  woman  lifted  the  green  window  shade  in  her  room  and  resent- 

34  The    Little    Review 

fully  blinked  at  the  sun-plastered  clamors  of  a  street.  She  turned! 
to  the  bed  lapon  which  another  woman  reclined. 

"Say,  wasn't  that  a  nutty  drunk  we  had  last  night,"  she  said. 
"Huggin'  a  bible  and  ravin'  about  waves  and  mermaids  and  a  lot  of 
other  funny  stuff." 

She  dropped  the  green  shade  and  stood  against  it,  a  moment,  in  the 
smouldering  gloom  of  the  gloom.  Her  brown  hair  had  a  drugged 
gentility;  its  short  dark  curlss  hugged  her  head  with  despondent 
understanding.  Her  face  had  been  washed  to  an  imperturbable 
transparency.  It  had  the  whiteness  of  reclining  foam  overcast  with 
.1  tinge  of  green — the  sea  had  lent  her  its  skin. 


by  Mark  Turbeyfill 

The   Metaphysical  Botanists 

— So  it  was  asters? 

Haven't  we  now 

A  little  right  to  be  proud  ? 

For  in  the  beginning 

Up  there  under  the  eaves 

Our  minds  silently  lifted 

An  unknown  pollen 

Stirred  by  an  unpretentious  breeze. 

Then  came  the  clanging  of  traffic, 
The  rattle  of  chains.     People  passed 
'     Like  rattling  chains.     Hot  drj^  winds 
Swept  over  the  space 
Of  that  cloistered  room. 
Spiritual  poverty.     No  fertile  rains. 
Could  we  be  sure 
Our  thoughts  would  bloom? 

The    Little    Review 


-Now  we  are  smiling  proudly, 
Trimmed  with  purple  progeny 
Showering  down  from  the  eaves, 
From  tlie  window  flower-boxes 
An  unconquered  laughter. 

We  thought  like  asters 

Thrown  against  the  wind.  / 


Important  pale  asters 

And  leering  lilies  painted  peach  color 

Writhing  to  a  futile  destination, 

Vibrant,  popping  out  in  lewd  insurrection 

From  the  black  border 

That  essays  to  hold  them  down,  \ 

A  stiff  ghost  tree 

Rises  out  of  a  blue  pond, 

Spreading  abroad  its  asteroids  of  foliage, 

The  sun-ball  flares  and  fails 

On  a  distant  line 

Like  a  disappointed  toy  balloon. 

Cat-tails  of  yellow  splintered  flame 

Prick  up  and  press  about 

A  fluted  pedestal 

Bearing  a  blossoming  bowl.  -  " 

A  queer  gauche  bird 

Perches  on  the  rim 

And  drinks  some  venomous  brew 

Of  which  it  faints  and  dies. 

A  constellation  of  bereaved  lemon  leaves 

Flutters  to  earth  in  a  funereal  ballet 
Through  the  limpid  mist 
Which  descends  upon  this  park  of  papier-mache. 


The   Other   IVoman 

by  Sherwood  Anderson 

^t  'W'AM  in  love  with  my  wife,"  he  said — a  superflous  remark, 
~        '     as  I  had  not  questioned  his  attachment  to  the  woman  he 


■  had  married.  We  walked  for  ten  minutes  and  then  he 
^^  said  it  again.  I  turned  to  look  at  him.  He  began  to  talk 
and  told  me  the  tale  I  am  now  about  to  set  down. 

The  thing  he  had  on  his  mind  happened  during  what  must  have 
been  the  most  eventful  week  of  his  life.  He  was  to  be  married  on 
Friday  afternoon.  On  P'riday  of  the  week  before  he  got  a  telegram 
announcing  his  appointment  to  a  government  position.  Something 
else  happened  that  made  him  very  proud  and  glad.  In  secret  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  writing  verses  and  during  the  year  before  several  of 
them  had  been  printed  in  poetry  magazines.  One  of  the  societies  that 
give  prizes  for  what  they  think  the  best  poems  published  during  the 
year  put  his  name  at  the  head  of  their  list.  The  story  of  his  triumph 
was  printed  in  the  newspapers  of  his  home  city,  and  one  of  them  also 
printed  his  picture. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  he  was  excited  and  in  a  rather  highly 
strung  nervous  state  all  during  that  week.  Almost  every  evening  he 
went  to  call  on  his  fiancee,  the  daughter  of  a  judge.  When  he  got 
there  the  house  was  filled  with  people  and  many  letters,  telegrams 
and  packages  were  being  received.  He  stood  a  little  to  one  side  and 
men  and  women  kept  coming  to  speak  with  him.  They  congratulated 
him  upon  his  success  in  getting  the  government  position  and  on  his 
achievement  as  a  poet.  Everyone  seemed  to  be  praising  him,  and  when 
he  went  home  to  bed  he  could  not  sleep.  On  Wednesday  evening 
he  went  to  the  theatre  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  people  all  over  the 
house  recognized  him.  Everyone  nodded  and  smiled.  After  the  first 
act  five  or  six  men  and  two  women  left  their  seats  to  gather  about 
him.  A  little  group  was  formed.  Strangers  sitting  along  the  same 
row  of  seats  stretched  their  necks  and  looked.  He  had  never  received 
so  much  attention  before,  and  now  a  fever  of  expectancy  took  pos- 
session of  him. 

3g  The    Little     Review 

As  he  explained  when  he  told  me  of  his  experience,  it  was  for  him 
an  altogether  abnormal  time.     He  felt  like  one  floating  in  air.     When 
he  got  into  bed  after  seeing  so  many  people  and  hearing  so  many 
words  of  praise  his  head  whirled  round  and  round.    When  he  closed 
his  eyes  a  crowd  of  people  invaded  his  room.    It  seemed  as  though  the 
minds  of  all  the  people  of  his  city  were  centered  on  himself.     The 
most  absurd  fancies  took  possession  of  him.     He  imagined  himself 
riding  in  a  carriage  through  the  streets  of  a  city.     Windows  were 
thrown  open  and  people  ran  out  at  the  doors  of  houses.    "There  he  is. 
That's  him,"  they  shouted,  and  at  the  words  a  glad  cry  arose.     The 
carriage  drove  into  a  street  blocked  with  people.     A  hundred  thousand 
pairs  of  eyes  looked  up  at  him.     "There  you  are!     What  a  fellow 
you  have  managed  to  make  of  yourself !"  the  eyes  seemed  to  be  saying. 
My  friend  could  not  explain  whether  the  excitement  of  the  people 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  written  a  new  poem  or  whether,  in 
his  new  government  position,  he  had  performed  some  notable  act. 
The  apartment  where  he  lived  at  that  time  was  on  a  street  perched 
along  the  top  of  a  cliff  far  out  at  the  edge  of  the  city  and  from  his 
bedroom  window  he  could  look  down  over  trees  and  factory  roofs  to 
a  river.     As  he  could  not  sleep  and  as  the  fancies  that  kept  crowding 
in  upon  him  only  made  him  more  excited,  he  got  out  of  bed  and  tried 
to  think. 

As  would  be  natural  under  such  circumstances,  he  tried  to  control 

his  thoughts,  but  when  he  sat  by  the  window  and  was  wide  awake  a 
most  unexpected  and  humiliating  thing  happened.  The  night  was 
clear  and  fine.  There  was  a  moon.  He  wanted  to  dream  of  the 
woman  who  was  to  be  his  wife,  think  out  lines  for  noble  poems  or 
make  plans  that  would  affect  his  career.  Much  to  his  surprise  his 
mind  refused  to  do  anything  of  the  sort. 

At  a  corner  of  the  street  where  he  lived  there  was  a  small  cigar 
store  and  newspaper  stand  run  by  a  fat  man  of  forty  and  his  wife, 
a  small  active  woman  with  bright  grey  eyes.  In  the  morning  he 
stopped  there  to  buy  a  paper  before  going  down  to  the  city.  Some- 
times he  saw  only  the  fat  man,  but  often  the  man  had  disappeared  and 
the  woman  waited  on  him.  She  was,  as  he  assured  me  at  least  twenty 
times   in  telling  me  his  tale,   a  very  ordinary  person  with  nothing 

The    Little     Review  3^ 

special  or  notable  about  her,  but  for  some  reason  he  could  not  explain 
being  in  her  presence  stirred  him  profoundly.  During  that  week  in 
the  midst  of  his  distraction  she  was  the  only  person  he  knew  who 
stood  out  clear  and  distinct  in  his  mind.  When  he  wanted  so  much 
to  think  noble  thoughts,  he  could  think  only  of  her.  Before  he  knew 
what  was  happening  his  imagination  had  taken  hold  of  the  notion  of 
having  a  love  affair  with  the  woman. 

"I  could  not  understand  myself,"  he  declared,  in  telling  me  the 
story.  "At  night,  when  the  city  was  quiet  and  when  I  should  have 
been  asleep,  I  thought  about  her  all  the  time.  After  two  or  three 
days  of  that  sort  of  thing  the  consciousness  of  her  got  into  my  daytime 
thoughts.  I  was  terribly  muddled.  When  1  went  to  see  the  woman 
who  is  now  my  wife  I  found  that  my  love  for  her  was  in  no  way 
affected  by  my  vagrant  thoughts.  There  was  but  one  woman  in  the 
world  I  wanted  to  live  with  me  and  to  be  my  comrade  in  undertaking 
to  improve  my  own  character  and  my  position  in  the  world,  but  for 
the  moment,  you  see,  I  wanted  this  other  woman  to  be  in  my  arms. 
She  had  worked  her  way  into  my  being.  On  all  sides  people  were 
saying  I  was  a  big  man  who  would  do  big  things,  and  there  I  was. 
That  evening  when  I  went  to  the  theatre  1  walked  home  because  I 
knew  I  would  be  unable  to  sleep,,  and  to  satisfy  the  annoying  impulse 
in  myself  I  went  and  stood  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  tobacco  shop. 
It  was  a  two  story  building,  and  I  knew  the  woman  lived  upstairs 
with  her  husband.  For  a  long  time  I  stood  in  the  darkness  with  my 
body  pressed  against  the  wall  of  the  building  and  then  I  thought  of 
the  two  of  them  up  there,  no  doubt  in  bed  together.  That  made  me 

"Then  I  grew  more  furious  at  myself.  I  went  home  and  got  into 
bed  shaken  with  anger.  There  are  certain  books  of  verse  and  some 
prose  writings  that  have  always  moved  me  deeply,  and  so  I  put 
several  books  on  a  table  by  my  bed. 

"The  voices  in  the  books  were  like  the  voices  of  the  dead.  I  did 
not  hear  them.  The  words  printed  on  the  lines  would  not  penetrate 
into  my  consciousness.  I  tried  to  think  of  the  woman  I  loved,  but 
her  figure  had  also  become  something  far  away,  something  with  which 
I  for  the  moment  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do.     I  rolled  and  tumbled 

40  The    Little    Review 

about  in  the  bed.     It  was  a  miserable  experience. 

"On  Thursday  morning  I  went  into  the  store.  There  stood  the 
woman  alone.  I  think  she  knew  how  I  felt.  Perhaps  she  had  been 
thinking  of  me  as  I  had  been  thinking  of  her.  A  doubtful  hesitating 
smile  played  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  had  on  a  dress 
made  of  cheap  cloth,  and  there  was  a  tear  on  the  shoulder.  She  must 
have  been  ten  years  older  than  myself.  When  I  tried  to  put  my 
pennies  on  the  glass  counter  behind  which  she  stood  my  hand  trembled 
so  that  the  pennies  made  a  sharp  rattling  noise.  When  I  spoke  the 
voice  that  came  out  of  my  throat  did  not  sound  like  anything  that  had 
ever  belonged  to  me.  It  barely  arose  above  a  thick  whisper.  'I 
want  you,'  I  said.  'I  want  you  very  much.  Can't  you  run  away 
from  your  husband?  Come  to  me  at  my  apartment  at  seven  to- 

"The  woman  did  come  to  my  apartment  at  seven.  That  morning 
she  did  not  say  anything  at  all.  For  a  minute  perhaps  we  stood  look- 
ing at  each  other.  I  had  forgotten  everything  in  the  world  but  just 
her.  Then  she  nodded  her  head  and  I  went  away.  Now  that  I  think 
of  it  I  cannot  remember  a  word  I  ever  heard  her  say.  She  came  to 
my  apartment  at  seven  and  it  was  dark.  You  must  understand  this 
was  in  the  month  of  October.  I  had  not  lighted  a  light  and  I  had 
sent  my  servant  away. 

"During  that  day  I  was  no  good  at  all.  Several  men  came  to  see 
me  at  my  office,  but  I  got  all  muddled  up  in  trying  to  talk  with  them. 
They  attributed  my  rattle-headedness  to  my  approaching  marriage 
and  went  away  laughing. 

"It  was  on  that  morning,  just  the  day  before  my  marriage,  that  I 
got  a  long  and  very  beautiful  letter  from  my  fiancee.  During  the 
night  before  she  also  had  been  unable  to  sleep  and  had  got  out  of  bed 
to  write  the  letter.  Everything  she  said  in  it  was  very  sharp  and 
real,  but  she  herself,  as  a  living  thing,  seemed  to  have  receded  into 
the  distance.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  like  a  bird,  flying  far  away 
in  distant  skies,  and  I  was  like  a  perplexed  bare-footed  boy  standing 
in  the  dusty  road  before  a  farm  house  and  looking  at  her  receding 
figure.     I  wonder  if  you  will  understand  what  I  mean? 

"In  regard  to  the  letter.     In  it  she,  the  awakening  woman,  poured 

The    Little    Review  41 

out  her  heart.  She  of  course  knew  nothing  of  life,  but  she  was  a 
woman.  She  lay,  I  suppose,  in  her  bed  feeling  nervous  and  wrought 
up  as  I  had  been  doing.  She  realized  that  a  great  change  was  about 
to  take  place  in  her  life  and  was  glad  and  afraid  too.  There  she  lay 
thinking  of  it  all.  Then  she  got  out  of  bed  and  began  talking  to 
me  on  the  bit  of  paper.  She  told  me  how  afraid  she  was  and  how 
glad  too.  Like  most  young  women  she  had  heard  things  whispered. 
In  the  letter  she  was  very  sweet  and  fine.  'For  a  long  time,  after  we 
are  married,  we  will  forget  we  are  a  man  and  woman,'  she  wrote. 
'We  will  be  human  "beings.  You  must  remember  that  1  am  ignorant 
and  often  I  will  be  very  stupid.  You  must  love  me  and  be  very 
patient  and  kind.  When  I  know  more,  when  after  a  long  time  you 
have  taught  me  the  way  of  life,  I  will  try  to  repay  you.  I  will  love 
j'ou  tenderly  and  passionately.  The  possibility  of  that  is  in  me,  or  I 
would  not  want  to  marry  at  all.  I  am  afraid  but  I  am  also  happy. 
O,  I  am  so  glad  our  marriage  time  is  near  at  hand.' 

"Now  you  see  clearly  enough  into  what  a  mess  I  had  got.  In  my 
office,  after  I  had  read  my  fiancee's  letter,  I  became  at  once  very  reso- 
lute and  strong.  I  remember  that  1  got  out  of  my  chair  and  walked 
about,  proud  of  the  fact  that  1  was  to  be  the  husband  of  so  noble  a 
woman.  Right  away  I  felt  concerning  her  as  I  had  been  feeling 
about  myself  before  1  found  out  what  a  weak  thing  I  was.  To  be 
sure  1  took  a  strong  resolution  that  I  would  not  be  weak.  At  nine 
that  evening  I  had  planned  to  run  in  to  see  my  fiancee.  'I'm  all  right 
now,'  I  said  to  myself.  'The  beauty  of  her  character  has  saved  me 
from  myself.  I  will  go  home  now  and  send  the  other  woman  away.' 
In  the  morning  I  had  telephoned  to  my  servant  and  told  him  that  I 
did  not  want  him  to  be  at  the  apartment  that  evening  and  I  now 
picked  up  the  telephone  to  tell  him  to  stay  at  home. 

"Then  a  thought  came  to  me.  'I  will  not  want  him  there  in  any 
event,'  I  told  myself.  'What  will  he  think  when  he  sees  a  woman 
coming  to  my  place  on  the  evening  before  the  day  I  am  to  be  married  ?' 
I  put  the  telephone  down  and  prepared  to  go  home.  'If  I  want  my 
servant  out  of  the  apartment  it  is  because  I  do  not  want  him  to  hear 
me  talk  with  the  woman.  I  cannot  be  rude  to  her.  1  will  have  to 
make  some  kind  of  an  explanation,'  I  said  to  myself. 

42  T  he    Lit  tie    Review 

"The  woman  came  at  seven  o'clock,  and,  as  you  may  have  guessed, 
I  let  her  in  and  forgot  the  resolution  I  had  made.  It  is  likely  I  never 
had  any  intention  of  doing  anything  else.  There  was  a  bell  on  my 
door,  but  she  did  not  ring,  but  knocked  very  softly.  It  seems  to  me 
that  everything  she  did  that  evening  was  soft  and  quiet  but  very 
determined  and  quick.  Do  I  make  myself  clear?  When  she  came  I 
was  standing  just  within  the  door,  where  I  had  been  standing  and 
waiting  for  a  half  hour.  My  hands  were  trembling  as  they  had 
trembled  in  the  morning  when  her  eyes  looked  at  me  and  when  I 
tried  to  put  tlie  pennies  on  the  counter  in  the  store.  When  I  opened 
the  door  she  stepped  quickly  in  and  I  took  her  into  my  arms.  We 
stood  together  in  the  darkness.  My  hands  no  longer  trembled.  I 
felt  very  happy  and  strong. 

"Although  I  have  tried  to  make  everything  clear  I  have  not  told 
you  what  the  woman  I  married  is  like.  I  have  emphasized,  you  see, 
the  other  woman.  1  make  the  blind  statement  that  I  love  my  wife, 
and  to  a  man  of  your  shrewdness  that  means  nothing  at  all.  To  tell 
the  truth,  had  I  not  started  to  speak  of  this  matter  I  would  feel  more 
comfortable.  It  is  inevitable  that  I  give  you  the  impression  that  I 
am  in  love  with  the  tobacconist's  wife.  That's  not  true.  To  be  sure 
I  was  very  conscious  of  her  all  during  the  week  before  my  marriage, 
but  after  she  had  come  to  me  at  my  apartment  she  went  entirely  out 
of  my  mind. 

"Am  I  telling  the  truth?  I  am  trying  very  hard  to  tell  what  hap- 
pened to  me,  I  am  saying  that  I  have  not  since  that  evening  thought 
of  the  woman  who  came  to  my  apartment.  Now,  to  t^U  the  facts  of 
the  case,  that  is  not  true.  On  that  evening  I  went  to  my  fiancee  at 
nine,  as  she  had  asked  me  to  do  in  her  letter.  In  a  kind  of  way  I 
cannot  explain  the  other  woman  went  with  me.  This  is  what  I 
mean — you  see  I  had  been  thinking  that  if  anything  happened  between 
me  and  the  tobacconist's  wife  I  would  not  be  able  to  go  through  with 
my  marriage.     'It  is  one  thing  or  the  other  with  me,'  I  had  said  to 


"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  went  to  see  my  beloved  on  that  evening 
filled  with  a  new  faith  in  the  outcome  of  our  life  together.  I  am 
afraid  I  muddle  this  matter  in  trying  to  tell  it.     A  moment  ago  I  said 

T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  43 

the  other  woman,  the  tobacconist's  wife,  went  with  me.  I  do  not 
mean  she  went  in  fact.  What  I  am  trying  to  say  is  that  something 
of  her  faith  in  her  own  desires  and  her  courage  in  seeing  things 
through  went  with  me.  Is  that  clear  to  you?  When  I  got  to  my 
fiancee's  house  there  was  a  crowd  of  people  standing  about.  Some 
were  relatives  from  distant  places  I  had  not  seen  before.  She  looked 
up  quickly  when  I  came  into  the  room.  My  face  must  have  been 
radiant.  I  never  saw  her  so  moved.  She  thought  her  letter  had 
affected  me  deeply,  and  of  course  it  had.  Up  she  jumped  and  ran  to 
meet  me.  She  was  like  a  glad  child.  Right  before  the  people  who 
turned  and  looked  inquiringly  at  us,  she  said  the  thing  that  was  in 
her  mind.  'O,  I  am  so  happy,'  she  cried.  'You  have  understood. 
We  will  be  two  human  beings.  We  will  not  have  to  be  husband  and 

"As  you  may  suppose,  everyone  laughed,  but  I  did  not  laugh.  The 
tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I  was  so  happy  I  wanted  to  shout.  Perhaps 
5^ou  understand  what  I  mean.  In  the  office  that  day  when  I  read  the 
letter  my  fiancee  had  written  I  had  said  to  myself,  *I  will  take  care 
of  the  dear  little  woman.'  There  was  something  smug,  you  see, 
about  that.  In  her  house  when  she  cried  out  in  that  way,  and  when 
everyone  laughed,  what  I  said  to  myself  was  something  like  this :  'We 
will  take  care  of  ourselves.'  I  whispered  something  of  the  sort  into 
her  ears.  To  tell  you  the  truth  I  had  come  down  off  my  perch.  The 
spirit  of  the  other  woman  did  that  to  me.  Before  all  the  people 
gathered  about  I  held  my  fiancee  close  and  we  kissed.  They  thought 
it  very  sweet  of  us  to  be  so  affected  at  the  sight  of  each  other.  What 
they  would  have  thought  had  they  known  the  truth  about  me  God 
only  knows! 

"Twice  now  I  have  said  that  after  that  evening  I  never  thought 
of  the  other  woman  at  all.  That  is  partially  true  but  sometimes  in 
the  evening  when  I  am  walking  alone  in  the  street  or  in  the  park  as 
we  are  walking  now,  and  when  evening  comes  softly  and  quickly  as 
it  has  come  to-night,  the  feeling  of  her  comes  sharply  into  my  body 
and  mind.  After  that  one  meeting  I  never  saw  her  again.  On  the 
next  day  I  was  married  and  I  have  never  gone  back  into  her  street. 
Often  however  as  I  am  walking  along  as  I  am  doing  now,  a  quick 

44  T  h  e    Lit  tie    Review 

sharp  earthy  feeling  takes  possession  of  me.  It  is  as  though  I  were  a 
seed  in  the  ground  and  the  warm  rains  of  the  spring  had  come.  It  is 
as  though  I  were  not  a  man  but  a  tree. 

"And  now  you  see  I  am  married  and  everything  is  all  right.  My 
marriage  is  to  me  a  very  beautiful  fact.  If  you  were  to  say  that  my 
marriage  is  not  a  happy  one  I  could  call  you  a  liar  and  be  speaking 
the  absolute  truth.  I  have  tried  to  tell  you  about  this  other  woman. 
There  is  a  kind  of  relief  in  speaking  of  her.  I  have  never  done  it 
before.  I  wonder  why  I  was  so  silly  as  to  be  afraid  that  I  would 
give  you  the  impression  I  am  not  in  love  with  my  wife.  If  I  did  not 
instinctively  trust  your  understanding  I  would  not  have  spoken.  As 
the  matter  stands  I  have  a  little  stirred  myself  up.  To-night  I  shall 
think  of  the  other  woman.  That  sometimes  occurs.  It  will  happen 
after  I  have  gone  to  bed.  My  wife  sleeps  in  the  next  room  to  mine 
and  the  door  is  always  left  open.  There  will  be  a  moon  to-night, 
and  when  there  is  a  moon  long  streaks  of  light  fall  on  her  bed.  I  shall 
awake  at  midnight  to-night.  She  will  be  lying  asleep  with  one  arm 
thrown  over  her  head. 

"What  is  it  that  I  am  now  talking  about?  A  man  does  not  speak 
of  his  wife  lying  in  bed.  What  I  am  trying  so  say  is  that,  because  of 
this  talk,  I  shall  think  of  the  other  woman  to-night.  My  thoughts 
will  not  take  the  form  they  did  during  the  week  before  I  was  married. 
I  will  wonder  what  has  become  of  the  woman.  For  a  moment  I  will 
again  feel  myself  holding  her  close.  I  will  think  that  for  an  hour 
I  was  closer  to  her  than  I  have  ever  been  to  anyone  else.  Then  I 
will  think  of  the  time  when  I  will  be  as  close  as  that  to  my  wife.  She 
is  still,  you  see,  an  awakening  woman.  For  a  moment  I  will  close 
my  eyes  and  the  quick,  shrewd,  determined  eyes  of  that  other  woman 
will  look  into  mine.  My  head  will  swim  and  then  I  will  quickly 
open  my  eyes  and  see  again  the  dear  woman  with  whom  I  have  under- 
taken to  live  out  my  life.  Then  I  will  sleep  and  when  I  awake  in 
the  morning  it  will  be  as  it  was  that  evening  when  I  walked  out  of  my 
dark  apartment  after  having  had  the  most  notable  experience  of  my 
life.  What  I  mean  to  say,  you  understand,  is  that,  for  me.  when  I 
awake,  the  other  woman  will  be  utterly  gone." 


Danse  Pseudomacabre 

by   TVilliam   Carlos   TVilliams 

THAT  which  is  possible  is  inevitable.  I  defend  the  nor- 
mality of  every  distortion  to  which  the  flesh  is  susceptible, 
every  disease,  every  amputation.  I  challenge  any  who 
thinks  to  discomfit  my  intelligence  by  limiting  the  import 
of  what  I  say  to  an  expounding  of  a  shallow  morbidity, 
to  prove  that  health  alone  is  inevitable.  Until  he  can  do  that  his 
attack  upon  me  will  be  imbecilic. 

Allonsl     Covimencons  la  danse. 

The  telephone  is  ringing.  I  have  awakened  sitting  erect  in  bed, 
unsurprised,  almost  uninterested,  but  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
death  pressing  my  chest  together  as  if  I  had  come  reluctant  from  the 
grave  toward  which  a  distorted  homesickness  continued  to  drag  me, 
a  sense  as  of  the  end  of  everything.  My  wife  still  lies  asleep,  curled 
against  her  pillow.  Christ,  Christ !  how  can  I  ever  bear  to  be  separ- 
ated from  this  my  boon  companion,  to  be  annihilated,  to  have  her 
annihilated?  How^  can  men  live  in  the  face  of  this  uncertainty?. 
How  can  a  man  not  go  mad  with  grief,  with  apprehension? 

I  wonder  what  time  it  is?  There's  a  taxi  just  leaving  the  club. 
Tang,  tang,  tang.     Finality,     Three  oclock. 

The  moon  is  low,  its  silent  flame  almost  level  among  the  trees, 
across  the  budding  rose  garden,  upon  the  grass. 

The  streets  are  illuminated  with  the  moon  and  the  useless  flares 
of  the  purple  and  yellow  street  lamps  hanging  from  the  dark  each 
above  its  little  circular  garden  of  flowers. 

Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!  Upstairs!  He's  dying!  Oh  my  God,  my 
God,  what  will  I  do  without  him?  I  won't  live!  I  won't — I 

What  a  face!  Erysipelas.  Doesn't  look  so  bad. — In  a  few  days 
the  moon  will  be  full. 

Quick!  Witness  this  signature.^ — It's  his  will. — A  great  blubber 
of  a  thirty  year  old  male  seated,  hanging,  floating  erect  in  the  center 

T  he    Little    Review  47 

of  the  sagging  doublebed  spring,  his  long  hair  in  a  mild  mass,  his 
body  wrapped  in  a  dawny  brown  wool  dressing  gown,  a  cord  around 
the  belly,  a  great  pudding  face,  the  whole  right  side  of  it  dirty  purple, 
swollen,  covered  with  watery  blebs,  the  right  eye  swollen  shut.  He 
is  trembling,  wildly  excited— a  paper  on  his  unsteady  knees,  a  fountain 
pen  in  his  hand:  Witness  this  signature!     Will  it  be  legal?— Yes,  of 

course. He  signs.     I  sign  after  him.     When  the  Scotch  go  crazy 

they  are  worse  than  a  Latin.  The  nose  uninvolved.  What  a  small 

My  God,  I'm  done  for. 

Oh  my  God,  what  will  I  do  without  him — ? 

Kindly  be  quiet,  madam.  What  sort  of  a  way  is  that  to  talk  in 
the  sick  room?  Do  you  want  to  kill  him?  Give  him  a  chance,  if 
you  please. 

Is  he  going  to  die,  doctor?  He's  only  been  sick  a  few  days.  His 
eye  started  to  close  yesterday.  He's  never  been  sick  in  his  life.  He 
has  no  one  but  his  father  and  me.     Oh,  I  won't  live  without  him. 

Of  course  when  a  man  as  full  blooded  as  he  has  erysipelas 

Do  you  think  it's  erysipelas? 

How  much  does  he  weigh  ? 

Two  hundred  and  forty  pounds. 

Temperature  102.     That's  not  bad. 

He  won't  die?! 

Are  you  kidding  me,  doctor? 

What  for? — The  moon  has  sunk.  Almost  no  nose  at  all.  Only 
the  Scotch  have  such  small  noses.— Follow  these  directions.  I  have 
written  down  what  you  are  to  do. 

Again  the  moon.  Again.  And  why  not  again?  It  is  a  dance. 
Everything  that  varies  a  hair's  breadth  from  another  is  an  invitation 
to  the  dance.  Either  dance  or — annihilation.  There  can  be  only  the 
dance  or  ONE.  So,  the  next  night,  I  enter  another  house.  And  so 
I  repeat  the  trouble  of  writing  that  which  I  have  already  written  and 
so  I  drag  another  human  being  from  oblivion  to  serve  my  music. 

It  is  a  baby.  There  is  a  light  at  the  end  of  a  broken  corridor.  A 
man   in  a  pointed  beard   leads  the  way.     Strong  foreign   accent. 

48  The    Little    R 

e  vt  ew 

Holland  Dutch.  We  walk  through  the  corridor  to  the  back  of  the 
house.  The  kitchen.  In  the  kitchen  turn  to  the  right.  Someone 
IS  sitting  back  of  the  open  bedroom  door,  a  nose  and  an  eye  emerge 
sniffing  and  staring,  a  wrinkled  nose,  a  cavernous  eye.  Turn  again 
to  the  right  through  another  door  and  walk  toward  the  front  of  the 
house.  We  are  in  the  sickroom.  A  bed  has  been  backed  against  the 
corridor  entry  making  this  detour  necessary. 

O  here  you  are,  doctor.— British.     The  nurse  1  suppose. 

The  baby  is  in  a  smother  of  sheets  and  crumbled  blankets,  its  head 
on  a  pillow,  a  compress  on  its  head,  a  large  wet  patch  on  the  pillow. 
The  child  has  its  left  eye  closed,  its  right  partly  opened.  It  emits  a 
soft  whining  cry  continuously  at  every  breath.  It  can't  be  more  than 
a  few  weeks  old. 

Do  you  think  it's  uncon.scious,  doctor  ? 


Will  it  live?— It  is  the  mother.  A  great  tender-eyed  blond.  Great 
full  breasts.  A  soft,  gentleminded  woman  ot  no  mean  beauty.  A 
blue  cotton  house  wrapper,  shoulder  to  ankle. 

If  it  lives  it  will  be  an  idiot  perhaps.  Or  it  will  be  paralysed— or 
horh.      It  is  better  for  it  to  die. 

There  it  goes  now!  Tiie  whining  cry  has  stopped.  The  lips  are 
blue.  The  mouth  puckers  as  for  some  diabolic  kiss.  It  twitches, 
twitches  faster  and  faster,  up  and  down.  7'he  body  slowly  grows 
rigid  and  begins  to  fold  itself  like  a  Hower  closing  again.  The  left 
eye  opens  slowly,  the  eyeball  is  turned  in  so  that  the  pupil  is  lost  in 
the  angle  toward  the  nose.  The  right  eye  remains  wide  open  and 
iixed  staring  forward.  Meningitis.  Acute.  The  arms  are  slowly 
raised  more  and  more  from  the  sides  as  if  in  the  deliberate  attitude 
before  a  mad  dance,  hands  clenched,  wrists  flexed.  The  arms  now  lie 
upon  each  other  crossed  at  the  wrists.  The  knees  are  drawn  up  as  if 
the  child  were  squatting.  The  body  holds  this  posture,  the  child's 
belly  rumbling  with  the  huge  contortion.  Breath  has  stopped.  The 
body  is  stiff,  blue.  Slowly  it  relaxes,  the  whimpering  cry  begins  again. 
The  left  eye  falls  closed. 

It  began  with  that  eye.  It  was  a  lovely  baby.  Normal  in  every 
way.     Breast  fed.     I  have  not  taken  him  anywhere.     It  is  only  six 

The    Little    Review  49 

weeks  old.     How  can  he  get  it? 

The  pointed  beard  approaches:  It  is  an  infection,  is  it  not,  doctor? 


But  I  took  him  nowhere.     Where  could  he  get  it? 

He  must  have  gotten  it  from  someone  who  has  it  or  carries  it. 
Maybe  from  one  of  you. 

Will  he  die? 

Yes,  I  think  so. 

Oh,  I  pray  the  Lord  to  take  him. 

Have  you  any  other  children  ? 

One  girl,  five,  and  this  boy. 

Well,  one  must  wait. 

Again  the  night.  The  beard  has  followed  me  to  the  door.  He 
closes  the  door  carefully.     We  are  alone  in  the  night. 

It  is  an  infection. 


My  wife  is  catholish — not  I.  She  had  him  baptise.  They  pour 
water  from  a  can  on  his  head,  so.  It  run  down  in  front  over  him, 
there  where  they  baptise  all  kinds  of  babies,  into  his  eye  perhaps. 
It's  a  funny  thing. 


Margaret    Anderson 

Foreign  Editors: 
John  Rodker  Jules  Remains 

Advisory  Beard: 


Noble    Words 

by    Maxwell  Bodenheim 

"I  wish  that  the  word  sincerity  could  be  dropped  from  the 
language  .  .  .  take  the  sincerity  of  the  artist.  It  is  not  his 
business  to  be  exact  about  life :  the  reality  of  things  is  not  his  con- 
cern."    jh  in  the  Little  Review. 

I  wish  that  the  word  insincerity  could  be  dropped  form  the 
language.  Only  inanimate  objects  are  sincere,  because  they  never 
attempt  to  explain  themselves.  In  a  world  animated  by  insincerity, 
the  word  insincerity  should  be  discarded  with  all  other  glaringly 
apparent  symbols,  but  the  word  sincerity  should  be  retained.  The 
latter  is  threadbare  but  holds  the  fantastic  virtues.  Up  to  date  I 
have  met  a  writer,  a  street-car  conductor  and  a  girl  working  in  a 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  51 

textile  mill  who  were  sincere.  I  would  not  even  vouch  for  their 
sincerity  but  I  have  considered  it  as  a  fascinating  plausibility.  These 
three  people  were  not  exact  about  life  and  the  reality  of  things  did 
not  concern  them,  but  this  does  not  affect  their  possible  sincerity. 
Their  words,  gestures,  facial  expressions  and  physical  outlines  seemed 
to  be  at  all  times  effortlessly  blended.  When  they  smiled  they  were 
never  sad ;  when  they  were  sad  they  never  grinned ;  they  never  hastily 
retrieved  an  awkward  posture  with  a  would-be  brilliant  word,  or  vice 
versa ;  and  when  they  scratched  their  heads  a  genuine,  dominating 
doubt  made  their  finger-nails  methodical.  The  factory-girl  did  not 
go  to  church  on  Sundays  because  Someone  had  made  her  flat-footed 
and  she  refused  to  recognise  the  general  goodness  of  his  intentions 
until  he  corrected  his  error.  She  wore  pink  waists  because  they 
reminded  her  of  strawberries — her  favorite  fruit — and  when  I  told 
her  that  strawberries  seemed  to  be  red  she  placidly  informed  me  that 
they  were  pink  when  they  flavored  ice-cream.  When  a  wagon  almost 
ran  over  her  it  left  its  aftermaths  of  shrinking  attitudes  in  her  body, 
for  days.  The  street-car  conductor  played  cards  on  Sundays;  cursed 
when  he  lost;  smirked  when  he  won;  and  sat  without  his  necktie.  I 
once  jocosely  asked  him  why  he  wore  neck-ties  at  other  times. 

"Them  things  are  only  for  show,"  he  answerd.  "People  give  you 
the  once-over  an'  it  makes  you  sore  if  you  walk  on  the  street  without 
one.     Besides,  the  women  like  'em." 

He  was  uninteresting  and  sincere. 

The  writer  did  not  believe  his  own  theories  on  art.  He  constantly 
abandoned  them  at  irregular  intervals  but  his  work  unfolded  more 
steadily.  Interested  in  this  incongruity  I  questioned  him.  When 
my  question  made  him  sulkily  bewildered  I  saw  the  possibility  of  his 
sincerity.  A  glibly  immediate  answer  would  have  made  me  drop  the 
subject.  According  to  his  words  he  kept  his  beliefs  in  motion  because 
his  creative  voice  liked  to  be  entertained  with  an  acrobatic  show  when 
not  itself  in  motion. 


52  T  he    Lit  1 1  e    Review 

Ghana   O  r I  off 
by   Muriel  Ciolkowska 

Paris,  April,  1920. 

MADAME  Ghana  Orloff's  wooden  statuette  of  an  "Ama- 
zone"  was  on  view  at  the  Salon  des  Independents,  the 
thirty-third  held  by  this  society  since  the  war  and  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  in  its  annals.  The  same  artist  had  sent,'  also, 
the  group  of  "Danseuses,"  a  "Maternite,"  and  a  "Femme  Enceinte." 

Among  these  the  last-named  departed,  in  my  opinion,  from  the 
spirit  which  impelled  the  three  others.  It  was,  at  any  rate,  in  con- 
tradiction with  them,  and  if  it  was  right  the  others  were  wrong  or 
visa  versa.  The  "Femn:\e  Enceinte"  was  deficient  in  that  exquisite 
wit,  spontaneous  fancy,  feminine  feeling  and  originality  evidenced  in 
the  Woman  on  Horseback,  in  that  "Maternite"  which,  failing  a 
photograph,  it  is  most  regrettably  impossible  to  reproduce  here.  The 
"Femme  Enceinte,"  on  the  other  hand  is  the  negative  outcome  of 
cold  calculation,  a  type  of  that  impoverished  brain-work  which  is  met 
with  among  certain  "cubists"  and  other  unimaginative  theorists  who 
would  compensate  want  of  inspiration  by  contempt  for  it,  substituting 
ruse  for  intelligence  bjf  an  appearance  of  scientific  intervention. 

The  "Amazone,"  being  reproduced  here,  does  not  require  descrip- 
tion. I  may,  nevertheless,  be  permitted  to  point  out  delicate  flexi- 
bilities in  the  rider's  figure  and  the  horse's  neck  which  are  distinctly 
of  a  feminine  character.  In  a  totally  different  form  similar  finesse 
distinguished  the  work  of  one  of  France's  greatest  sculptors,  a  woman 
also.  Jane  Poupelet. 

In  the  "Dancers"  the  feet  are  unexplained.  "Maternite"  remains 
the  warmest,  the  most  unerring  of  Mme.  Orloff's  exhibited  works. 

At  the  same  show  another  Russian,  Marie  Vassioieff,  was  conspic- 
uous for  some  astonishing  dolls,  humorous  portrait  of  contemporaries, 
— M.  Paul  Goiret,  Monsieurs  and  Madame  Andre  Salmon,  M.  Fer- 
nand  Leger,  and  so  on,  wihch  are  wonderfully  devised  and  expressed. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Little  Review  readers  would  be  sensible  to 
the  Qha,rm  and  wit  pf  "I^'Amazone,''  novel  to  sculptyr^  especially. 


by  Dorothy  Richardson 

C  hapt  er   Ten    ( Concluded] 

tt  n|r  SN'T  it?"  agreed  Mrs.  Bailey  cordially. 

"         "You  must  have  been  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  lodgers  and 

I  have  possession  of  the  whole  house." 
"Yes"  said  Mrs.  Bailey  straightening  the  sideboard  cloth. 
Hearty  agreement  about  the  advantages  and  disadvan- 
tages of  boarders  and  then,  I  think  it's  very  plucky  of  you  and  away 
upstairs.     A  few  words  about  the  interest  of  having  boarders  to  begin 
getting  to  the  door  with. 

"The  Irishman's  an  interesting  specimen  of  humanity." 

"Isn't  he  interesting,"  laughed  Mrs.  Bailey  moving  further  into 
the  room. 

"It's  much  more  interesting  to  have  boarders  than  lodgers"  said 
Miriam  moving  along  the  pathway  of  freedom  towards  the  open 
door.  Mrs.  Bailey  stood  silent,  watching  politely.  There  was  no 
way  out.  Mrs.  Bailey's  presence  would  be  waiting  in  the  hall,  and 
upstairs,  unappeased.  Miriam  glanced  towards  her  without  meeting 
her  eyes  and  sat  limply  down  on  the  nearest  chair. 

"Phoo — it's  rather  a  relief,"  she  murmured. 

Mrs.  Bailey  went  briskly  to  the  door  and  closed  it  and  came  freely 
back  into  the  room,  a  litle  exacting  figure  who  had  seen  all  her  selfish 
rejoicing.  She  would  get  up  now  and  walk  about  the  room,  talking 
easily  and  eloquently  about  Eleanor's  charm  and  go  away  leaving 
Mrs.  Bailey  mystified  and  disposed  of. 

"My  word"  declared  Mrs.  Bailey  tweaking  the  window  curtains. 
Then  Bailey  was  ready  and  anxious  to  talk  her  over.  After  seeming 
to  like  her  so  much  and  being  so  attentive  and  sending  her  off  so 
gaily  and  kindly,  she  had  some  grievance.  It  was  not  the  bill.  It 
was  a  matter  of  opinion.  Mrs.  Bailey  had  been  charmed  and  had  yet 
seen  through  her.  Seen  what?  What  was  the  everlasting  secret 
of  Eleanor?     She  imagined  them  standing  talking  together,  politely, 

54  The    Little    Review 

and  joking  and  laughing.  Mrs.  Bailey  would  like  Eleanor's  jokes; 
they  would  be  in  agreement  with  her  own  opinions  about  things.  But 
she  had  formed  some  idea  of  her  and  was  ready  to  express  it.  If  it 
explained  anything  one  would  have  to  accept  it,  from  Mrs.  Bailey. 
To  make  nice  general  remarks  about  her  and  enquire  insincerely 
about  the  bill  would  be  never  to  get  Mrs.  Bailey's  uninfluenced  opin- 
ion.    She  would  not  give  it  unless  she  were  asked. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  for  her,"  she  said  in  Eve's  voice.  That  would 
mean  just  her  poverty  and  her  few  clothes  and  delicate  health.  There 
could  be  an  insincere  discussion.  It  might  end  in  nothing  and  the 
mean  selfish  joy  would  still  be  waiting  unstairs  as  soon  as  one  had 
forgotten  that  it  was  mean  and  selfish. 

"So  am  r'  said  Mrs.  Bailey  heartily.  There  was  anger  in  her  face. 
There  really  was  something,  some  really  bad  opinion  about  Eleanor. 
Mrs.  Bailey  thought  these  things  more  important  than  joyful  free- 
dom. She  was  one  of  those  people  who  would  do  things;  then  there 
were  other  people  too ;  then  one  need  not  trouble  about  what  it  was  or 
warn  people  against  Eleanor.  The  world  would  find  out  and  protect 
itself,  passing  her  on.  If  Mrs.  Bailey  felt  there  was  something 
wrong,  no  one  need  feel  blamed  for  thinking  so.  There  was.  What 
was  it? 

"I'm  the  last  to  be  down  on  anyone  in  difficulties,"  said  Mrs. 

"Oh  yes."     It  was  coming. 

"It's  the  way  of  people  /  look  to."  She  stopped.  If  she  were  not 
pressed  she  would  say  no  more. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Mrs.  Bailey,  has  her  bill  been  settled?"  The 
voice  of  Mrs.  Lionel  „  .  .  she's  unsquashable  my  dear,  abso- 
lutely unsquashable.  You  never  saw  anything  like  it  in  your  life. 
But  she's  done  for  herself  in  Weston.     It  might  finish  the  talk. 

"That's  all  in  order,  young  lady.     It's  not  that  at  all." 

"Oh,  I  know.     I'm  glad  though." 

"I  had  my  own  suspicions  before  70U  told  me  you'd  be  responsible. 
I  never  thought  about  that." 

"No,  I  see." 

"It's  the  way  of  people." 

T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Re  V  iew  55 

"Well  you  know  I  told  you  at  once  that  you  must  have  her  here 
at  your  own  risk  after  the  first  week,  and  that  I  hardly  knew  any- 
thing about  her."  If  she  had  paid  the  two  weeks  so  easily  perhaps 
Mr.  Taunton  was  still  looking  after  her  needs.  No.  She  would 
have  mentioned  him.  He  had  dropped  her  entirely;  after  all  he  had 

"I'm  not  blaming  you,  young  lady."     Perhaps  Mrs.  Bailey  had 
offered  advice  and  been  rebuffed  in  some  way.    There  would  be  some 
mysterious  description  of  character;  like  the  Norwegian 
'selfish  in  a  way  I  couldn't  describe  to  you.' 

"If  I'd  known  what  it  was  going  to  be  I'd  not  have  had  her  in  the 
house  two  days." 

some  man  .  .  .  who?  .  .  .  but  they  were 
out  all  day  and  Eleanor  had  been  with  her  every  evening.  Besides 
Mrs.  Bailey  would  sympathise  with  that  .  .  .  She  was  furi- 
ously angry;  "not  two  days."  But  she  had  been  charmed.  Charmed 
and  admiring. 

"Did  she  flirt  with  some  one?" 

"That"  said  Mrs.  Bailey  gravely.  "I  can't  tell  you.  She  may  have; 
that's  her  own  affair.  I  wouldn't  necessary  blame  her.  Everyone's 
free  to  do  as  they  like  provided  they  behave  themselves."  Mrs.  Bailey 
was  brushing  at  her  skirt  with  downcast  eyes. 

This  woman  had  opened  Dr.  von  Heber's  letter ;  knew  he  was 
coming  next  year;  knew  that  he  "would  not  have  permitted"  any 
talk  and  that  all  her  interference  was  meanmgless.  He  was  coming, 
carrying  his  suit  case  out  of  the  hospital,  no  need  for  the  smart  edu- 
cated nurses  to  think  about  him  .  .  .  taking  ship 
coming  back.     Perhaps  she  resented  having  been  in  the  wrong. 

"It  was  funny  how  she  found  a  case  so  suddenly,"  said  Miriam 
drawing  herself  upright,  careless,  like  a  tree  in  the  wind.  She  had 
already  forgotten  she  would  always  feel  like  that,  her  bearing  altered 
for  ever,  held  up  by  him,  like  a  tree  in  the  wind,  everyone  powerless 
to  embarrass  her.     Poor  Mrs.  Bailey      ... 

"You  see  I  feel  I  drove  her  to  it,  in  a  way." 

Mrs.  Bailey  listened  smiling  keenly. 

"Yes  you  see''  pursued  Miriam  cheerfully,  "I  told  her  she  would 

56  T  he    Lit  tie    Review 

be  all  right  for  a  week.    I  blamed  you  for  that,  said  you  were  flour- 
ishing and  she  could  pay  when  her  ship  came  home." 

"That's  what  you  told  her,  eh?" 

"Well  and  then  when  she  admitted  she  had  no  money  and  I 
knew  I  couldn't  manage  more  than  a  week,  1  advised  her  to  apply  to 
the  C.  O.  S.  She  said  she  would  and  seemed  delighted,  and  when 
I  asked  her  about  it  later  she  cried  and  said  she  hadn't  been.  I  said 
she  must  do  something  and  then  suddenly  this  case  appeared.  Where 
I  don't  know." 

"I  don't  blame  her  for  not  wanting  to  go  there." 


"My  word.     I'd  as  soon  go  straight  to  the  parish." 

"Wilberforce  believes  in  them.  He  says  if  you  really  want  to  help 
the  helpless  you  will  not  flaunt  your  name  In  subscription  lists  but 
hand  your  money  over  to  the  C.  O.  S.  They  are  the  only  charitable 
organization  that  does  not  pauperise." 

"Him?  Wilberforce?  He  has  a  right  to  his  own  opinions  I  don't 
deny.  But  if  he'd  ever  been  in  difficulties  he  might  change  them. 
Insulting,  that's  my  opinion.  My  word  the  questions  they  ask.  You 
can't  call  your  soul  your  own." 

"I  didn't  know  that.     That  friend  my  sister  brought  here  was 
being  helped  by  them." 
.     "How  is  Miss  Henderson?" 

"Perfectly  happy.  Being  with  the  Greens  again  seems  Paradise 
she  says,  after  London.     She's  satisfied  now." 

"Mts.   She's  a  sweet  young  lady;  them's  fortunate  as  have  her." 

"Well  now  she's  tried  something  else  she  appreciates  the  beautiful 
home.     I  don't  think  she  wants  to  be  free." 

"Quite  so.  Persons  differ.  But  she's  her  own  mistress;  free  to 

"Of  course  it's  nicer  now.  The  children  are  at  school.  She's  con- 
fiidential  companion.  They  all  like  her  so  much.  They  invented  it 
for  her." 

"And  she  is  absolutely  in  Mrs.  Green's  confidence  now.  I  don't 
know  what  poor  Mrs.  Green  would  do  without  her.  She  went  back 
just  in  time  for  a  most  fearful  tragedy." 

The     Little     Review  Si 

"Mts;  dear — dear"  breathed  Brs.  Bailey,  waiting  with  frowning, 
calm  eagerness.  Miriam  hesitated.  It  would  be  a  long  difficult  story 
to  make  Mrs.  Bailey  see  stupid  commercial  wealth.  She  would  see 
wealthy  people,  a  "gentleman,"  living  in  a  large  country  house  and 
not  understand  Mr.  Green  at  all;  but  Eve  getting  the  bunch  of  keys 
from  the  irinmonger's  and  writing  to  Bennett  to  find  out  about 
Rupert  Street  .  .  .  and  the  detective.  She  would  have  it  in 
her  mind  like  a  novel  and  never  let  it  go.  it  would  be  a  breach  of 
confidence.  .  .  .  She  paused,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with 
her  sudden  animation.  It  was  too  late  to  get  back  into  being  an 
impartial  listener,  on  the  verge  of  going  away.  She  had  told  every- 
thing, without  the  interesting  details.  Mrs.  Bailey  was  waiting  for 
them.  They  were  still  safe.  She  might  think  it  was  an  illness  or 
something  about  a  relative.  The  only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  stay 
and  work  off  the  unexplained  animation  on  anything  Mrs.  Bailey 
might  choose  to  say. 

"Well"  said  Mrs.  Bailey  presently,  "to  return  to  our  friend.  What 
I  say  is,  why  doesn't  she  go  to  the  clerg>%  in  her  own  parish  ?" 

"Go  on  the  parish,  m'm." 

"Not  necessarily  on  the  parish.  The  clergy's  most  helpful  and 
sympathetic.    They  might  tell  her  of  those  who  would  help  her." 

"They  might.  But  it's  most  awfully  difficult.  Nobody  knows 
what  ought  to  be  done  about  these  things." 

"That   is   so.     But   there's   a    right    and    a   wrong    in    everything. 
There's  plenty  of  people  willing  to  help  those  that  will  help  them- 
selves.    But  that's  very  different  to  coming  into  a  person's  house  to 
try  and  get  money  out  of  strangers." 
1  say. 

"It  is  I  say.  I  never  felt  so  ashamed  in  my  life." 

"I  say.     How  did  you  hear  of  it?   Did  they  tell  you?" 

"Mrs.  Hurd  came  to  me  herself." 

"Mrs.  Hurd.     Of  course;  it  would  be." 

"My  word.     I  luas  wild.  And  then  only  just  come  into  my  house." 

"Yes,  of  course;  I  say." 

"Tellin'  them  she  was  ill." 

"She  is  ill  you  know." 

58  The    Little    k 


"There's  some  imagines  theirselves  ill.  If  she  was  anything  like  as 
ill  as  I  am  she  might  have  something  to  complain  about." 

"I  think  she's  rather  plucky.  She  doesn't  want  to  give  in.  It's  a 
kind  of  illness  that  doesn't  show  much.  I  know  her  doctor.  He's 
a  Harley  Street  man.  He  says  that  her  kind  of  disorder  makes  it 
absolutely  impossible  for  the  patient  to  tell  the  truth.  I  don't  believe 
that.  It's  just  one  of  those  doctory  things  they  all  repeat  .  .  ." 
What  is  truth  said  jesting  Pilate  and  did  not  wait  for  an  answer. 
Their  idea  of  truth — 

"Well  if  she  is  ill  why  doesn't  she  act  according?" 

"Look  after  herself  a  bit.  Yes.  That's  what  she  wants  to  do.  Bu-r 
not  give  in." 

"Quite  so.  That's  a  thing  a  person  can  understand.  But  that 
doesn't  make  it  right  to  come  to  private  people  and  beh"ave  in  the 
way  she  has  done.  Strangers.  I  never  met  such  conduct,  nor  heard 
of  it." 


"She's  got  relatives  I  suppose;  or  friends." 

"Well,  that's  just  it.  I  don't  think  she  has.  I  suppose  the  truth 
is  all  her  friends  are  tired  of  helping  her." 

"Well,  I'm  not  judging  her  there.  There's  none  can  be  so  cruel 
as  relatives,  a$  /  know  my  word." 


"They'll  turn  from  you  when  you're  struggling  to  the  utmost 
to  help  yourself,  going  on  ill,  left  with  four  young  children,  your 
husband  cut  off  and  not  a  penny/' 


"1  agree  with  her  there.  I  owe  all  I  have,  under  Providence, 
to  my  own  hands  and  the  help  coming  from  strangers  I  had  no  claim 
on.  But  why  doesn't  she  act  open?  That's  what  /  say  and  I  know 
it.  There's  alwaj's  those  ready  to  help  you  if  you'll  do  your  part.  It's 
all  take  and  no  give  with  some." 

"Vampires.     People  are  extraordinary." 

"You'd  say  so  if  you  had  this  house  to  manage." 

"*1  suppose  so." 

"You  get  your  eyes  open.    With  one  and  another." 

The    Little    Review  59 

"I'd  no  idea  she'd  even  been  talking  to  the  Hurds." 
"Talk?     Well  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  she's  gone." 
"Well,  she  won't  come  back  again.     If  she  ever  does  Mrs.  Bailey 
I  hereby  refuse  all  responsibility.     On  your  head  be  it  if  you  take 
her  in.   /  can't  keep  her." 

"Well,  as  I  say,  I'm  free  to  tell  you.     They  used  to  go  upstairs 
into  the  drawn-room,  mornings,  after  breakfast.     I  could  hear  that 
woman's  voice  going  on  and  on.     I  was  up  and  down  the  stairs. 
What's  more  she  used  to  stop  dead  the  minute  I  came  in." 
"Well  I  am  sorry  you've  had  all  this." 
"I'm  not  blaming  you,  young  lady." 
"What  about  all  the  others?" 

"Rodkin  and  Helsing's  and  Gunner's  out  all  day." 
"Yes  but  the  others?  The  Manns  and  the  Irish  journalist." 
"She'd  be  clever  to  get  anything  out  of  any  of  them/' 
"I  wonder  she  didn't  try  Mrs.  Barrow.     She's  kind  I'm  sure  and 

"She's  very  kind  no  doubt  in  her  way.  Anyway  she's  not  one  of 
those  who  live  on  a  widow  woman  and  pay  nothing." 

The  old  sense  of  the  house  was  crumbling.  To  Mrs.  Bailey  it  was 
ivorry  and  things  she  could  not  talk  about  to  anyone,  and  a  few  nice 
people  here  and  there.  And  all  the  time  she  was  polite;  as  if  she 
liked  them  all,  equally.  And  they  were  polite.  Everyone  was  polite. 
And  behind  it  was  all  this.  Shifts  and  secrets  and  strange  charac- 
ters. When  they  were  all  together  at  Mrs.  Bailey's  dinner,  they 
were  all  carrying  things  off,  politely.  Perhaps  already  she  regretted 
having  sent  away  the  lodgers. 

"The  doctors  were  nice  people  to  have  in  the  house." 
"Wasn't  they  dear  boys?    Fevy   nice  gentlemen.     Canadians  are 
the  ones  to  my  mind,  though  I  believe  as  much  as  any  in  standing  by 
your  own.    But  you've  got  to  consider  your  interests." 
"Of  course." 

"That's  why  I  mean  to  advertise.      My  word  those  Hruds  are 
good  friends  if  you  like.    I  couldn't  tell  you.    The  old  man's  put  an 
advert  for  me  in  the  Canadian  place  in  the  city." 
"Then  you'll  have  a  houseful  of  Canadians." 

60  The    Little    Revie 


"That's  what  I  hope.    The  more  the  better  of  their  kind." 

"We  shall  all  be  speaking  Canadian." 

"Well  since  we're  on  the  subject  Mrs.  Hurd  advises  me  to  go  to 
Canada.  Says  it's  all  work  and  no  pay  over  here.  Everybody  expects 
too  much  for  too  little." 

How  could  she  rejoice  in  the  idea  of  a  house  full  of  Canadians? 
All  the  same.  Canadian.  It  would  change  the  house  more  and  more. 
Mrs.  Bailey  would  not  mind  that.  The  house  meant  nothing  to  her 
just  as  it  was  with  its  effect.  She  had  to  make  it  pay.  If  another 
house  would  pay  better  she  would  just  as  soon  have  another  house. 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  leave  London.  There's  no  place  like  Lon- 
don." The  Kurd's  thought  everyone  in  the  house  selfish,  living  on 
Mrs.  Bailey's  toil,  enjoying  the  house  for  nothing,  forgetting  her.  It 
was  true  .      .      uneasy  in  her  presence. 

C h a p t er    E lev  en 

Miriam  got  up  early  the  next  morning  and  went  to  her  window 
in  her  nightgown.  There  was  a  thick  August  haze  in  the  square. 
The  air  smelt  moist.  She  leaned  out  into  the  chill  of  it.  Her  body 
was  full  of  sleep  and  strength;  all  one  strength  from  head  to  foot. 
She  heard  life  in  the  silence,  and  went  through  her  getting  up  as 
quickly  as  possible,  listening  all  the  time  to  the  fresh  silence. 

She  went  downstairs  feeling  like  a  balloon  on  a  string;  her  feet 
touching  the  stairs  lightly  as  if  there  were  no  weight  in  her  body.  At 
the  end  of  the  long  journey  came  the  smiling  familiar  surprise  of  the 
hall.  The  hall-table  was  clear,  a  stretch  of  grey  marble  in  the 
morning  light.  The  letters  had  been  taken  into  the  dining-room. 
There  was  something,  a  package,  on  the  far  corner,  a  book  package, 
with  a  note,  Silurian  blue,  Eleanor.  Small  straggly  round  hand- 
writing, yes.  Eleanor's,  R.  Rodkin,  Esq:  Ah.  Mr.  Rodkin.  How 
had  she  done  it?  When?  Carrying  off  a  book.  Pretending  she  had 
forgotten,  and  writing.  Fiendish  cleverness.  What  a  blessing  she 
had  gone.  Booming  through  her  uneasiness  came  a  great  voice  from 
the  dining-room.  Through  the  misty  corridors  of  the  Dawn  it  bel- 
lowed.    She  went  gladly  in  towards  poetry.     Mrs.  Bailey  was  pre- 

T  h  e    Little    Review  61 

siding  over  an  early  breakfast.  The  Irishman,  sitting  back  mirthfully 
in  his  chair  on  the  far  side  of  the  table  and  at  his  side  a  big  stout 
man  with  a  bushy  black  beard,  brilliant  laughing  eyes  staring  at  noth- 
ing from  a  flushed  face.  Mrs.  Bailey  was  watching  him  with  a 
polite  smile;  he  looked  as  though  he  were  at  supper;  making  the 
room  seem  hot,  obliterating  the  time  of  day.  1  expect  you  had  a 
rough  crossing,  she  sad  politely.  I  saw  her,  he  bellowed  flinging 
back  his  head  and  roaring  out  words  and  laughter  together.  She  walks 
in  Beauty.    I  saw  her  sandalled  feet ;  upon  the  Hills. 



by  yames  yoyce 

Episode  XIII    {Continued) 

AND  THEN  there  came  out  upon  the  air  the  sound  of 
voices  and  the  pealing  anthem  of  the  organ.  It  was 
the  men's  temperance  retreat  conducted  by  the  mis- 
sioner,  the  reverend  John  Hughes  S.  J.  rosary,  sermon 
and  benediction  of  the  most  blessed  sacrament.  They 
were  there  gathered  together  without  distinction  of  social  class  (and  a 
most  edifying  spectacle  it  was  to  see)  in  that  simple  fane  beside  the 
waves  after  the  storms  of  this  weary  world,  kneeling  before  the  feet 
of  the  immaculate,  beseeching  her  to  intercede  for  them,  holy  Mary, 
holy  virgin  of  virgins.  How  sad  to  poor  Gerty's  ears!  Had  her 
father  only  avoided  the  clutches  of  the  demon  drink  she  might  now 
be  rolling  in  her  carriage,  second  to  none.  Over  and  over  had  she 
told  herself  that  as  she  mused  by  the  dying  embers  in  a  brown  studv 
or  gazing  out  of  the  window  by  the  hour  at  the  rain  falling  on  the 

62  The    Little    Revie 


rusty  bucket.  But  that  vile  decoction  which  has  ruined  so  many 
hearts  and  homes  had  cast  its  shadow  over  her  childhood  days.  Nay, 
she  had  even  witnessed  in  the  home  circle  deeds  of  violence  caused  by 
intemperance  and  had  seen  her  own  father,  a  prey  to  the  fumes  of 
intoxication,  forget  himself  completely  for  if  there  was  one  thing 
of  all  things  that  Gerty  knew  it  was  that  the  man  who  lifts  his  hand 
to  a  woman  save  in  the  way  of  kindness  deserves  to  be  branded  as 
the  lowest  of  the  low. 

And  still  the  voices  sang  in  supplication  to  the  virgin  most  pow- 
erful, virgin  most  merciful.  And  Gerty,  wrapt  in  thought,  scarce  saw 
or  heard  her  companions  or  the  twins  at  their  boyish  gambols  or  the 
gentleman  off  Sandymount  green  that  Cissy  Caffrey  called  the  man 
that  was  so  like  himself  passing  along  the  strand  taking  a  short  walk. 
You  ne\er  saw  him  anyway  screwed  but  still  and  for  all  that  she 
would  not  like  him  for  father  because  he  was  too  old  or  something  or 
on  account  of  his  face  (it  was  a  palpable  case  of  doctor  Fell)  or  his 
carbuncly  nose  with  the  pimples  on  it.  Poor  father!  With  all  his 
faults  she  loved  him  still  when  he  sang  Tell  me,  Mary,  how  to  woo 
thee  and  they  had  stewed  cockles  and  lettuce  with  salad  dressing  for 
supper  and  when  he  sang  The  moon  hath  raised  with  Mr.  Dignam 
that  died  suddenly  and  was  buried,  God  have  mercy  on  him,  from  a 
stroke.  Her  mother's  birthday  that  was  and  Charley  was  home 
on  his  holidays  and  Tom  and  Mr,  Dignam  and  Mrs. 
and  Patsy  and  Freddy  Dignam  and  they  were  to  have  had  a  group 
taken.  No  one  would  have  thought  the  end  was  so  near.  Now  he 
was  laid  to  rest.  And  her  mother  said  to  him  to  let  that  be  a  warn- 
ing to  him  for  the  rest  of  his  days  and  he  couldn't  even  go  to  the 
funeral  on  account  of  the  gout,  and  she  had  to  go  Into  town  to 
bring  him  the  letters  and  samples  from  his  office  about  Catesby's  cork 
line,  artistic  designs,  fit  for  a  palace,  gives  tiptop  wear  and  always 
bright  and  cheery  in  the  home. 

A  sterling  good  daughter  was  Gerty  just  like  a  second  mother  in 
the  house,  a  ministering  angel  too.  And  Avhen  her  mother  had  those 
splitting  headaches  who  was  it  rubbed  on  the  menthol  cone  on  her 
forehead  but  Gerty  though  she  didn't  like  her  mother  taking  pinches 
of  snuff  and  that  was  the  only  single  thing  they  ever  had  words  ^bout, 

T  he    Little    Review  63 

taking  snuff.  It  was  Gerty  who  turned  off  the  gas  at  the  main  every 
night  and  it  was  Gerty  who  tacked  up  on  the  wall  of  that  place 
Mr.  Tunney  the  grocer's  christmas  almanac  the  picture  of  halcyon 
days  where  a  young  gentleman  in  the  costume  they  used  to  wear  then 
with  a  threecornered  hat  was  offering  a  bunch  of  flowers  to  his  lady- 
love with  oldtime  chivalry  through  her  lattice  window.  The  colours 
were  done  something  lovely.  She  was  in  a  soft  clinging  white  and  the 
gentleman  was  in  chocolate  and  he  looked  a  thorough  aristocrat.  She 
often  looked  at  them  dreamily  when  she  went  there  for  a  certain 
purpose  and  thought  about  those  times  because  she  had  found  out  in 
Walker's  pronouncing  dictionary  about  the  halcyon  days  what  they 


The  twins  were  now  playing  in  the  most  approved  brotherly 
fashion,  till  at  last  Master  Jacky  who  was  really  as  bold  as  brass 
there  was  no  getting  behind  that  deliberately  kicked  the  ball  as  hard 
as  ever  he  could  down  towards  the  seaweedy  rocks.  Needless  to  say 
poor  Tommy  was  not  slow  to  voice  his  dismay  but  luckily  the  gen- 
tleman in  black  who  was  sitting  there  by  himself  came  to  the  rescue 
and  intercepted  the  ball.  Our  two  champions  claimed  their  play- 
thing with  lusty  cries  and  to  avoid  trouble  Cissy  Caffrey  called  to 
the  gentleman  to  throw  it  to  her  please.  The  gentleman  aimed  the 
ball  once  or  twice  and  then  threw  it  up  the  strand  towards  Cissy 
Caft'rey  but  it  rolled  down  the  slope  and  stopped  right  under  Gerty's 
skirt  near  the  little  pool  by  the  rock.  The  twins  clamoured  again 
for  it  and  Cissy  told  her  to  kick  it  way  and  let  them  fight  for  it,  so 
Gerty  drew  back  her  foot  but  she  wished  their  stupid  ball  hadn't  come 
rolling  down  to  her  and  she  gave  a  kick  but  she  missed  and  Edy  and 
Cissy  laughed. 
— If  you  fail  try  again,  Edy  Boardman  said. 

Gerty  smiled  assent.  A  delicate  pink  crept  into  her  pretty  cheek 
but  she  was  determined  to  let  them  see  so  she  just  lifted  her  skirt 
a  little  but  just  enough  and  took  good  aim  and  gave  the  ball  a  jolly 
good  kick  and  it  went  ever  so  far  and  the  two  twins  after  it  down 
towards  the  shingle.  Pure  jealousy  of  course  it  was  nothing  else 
to  draw  attention  on  account  of  the  gentleman  opposite  looking.  She 
felt  the  warm  flush,  a  danger  signal  always  with  Gerty  MagDowell 

64  The    Little    R 

e  V  I  e  w 

surging  and  flaming  into  her  cheeks.  Till  then  they  had  only  ex- 
changed glances  of  the  most  casual  but  now  under  the  brim  of  her 
new  hat  she  ventured  a  look  at  him  and  the  face  that  met  her  gaze 
there  in  the  twilight,  wan  and  strangely  drawn,  seemed  to  her  the 
saddest  she  had  ever  seen. 

Through  the  open  window  of  the  church  the  fragrant  incense  was 
wafted  and  with  it  the  fragrant  names  of  her  who  was  conceived 
without  stain  of  original  sin,  spiritual  vessel,  pray  for  us,  honourable 
vessel,  pray  for  us,  vessel  of  singular  devotion,  pray  for  us,  mystical 
rose.  And  careworn  hearts  were  there  and  toilers  for  their  daily 
bread  and  many  who  had  erred  and  wandered,  their  eyes  wet  with 
contrition  but  for  all  that  bright  with  hope  for  the  reverend  father 
Hughes  had  told  them  what  the  great  saint  Bernard  said  in  his 
famous  prayer  of  Mary,  the  most  pious  virgin's  intercessory  power 
that  it  was  not  recorded  in  any  age  that  those  who  implored  her  pow- 
erful protection  were  ever  abandoned  by  her. 

The  twins  were  now  playing  again  right  merrily  for  the  troubles 
of  childhood  are  but  as  passing  summer  showers.  Cissy  played  with 
baby  Boardman  till  he  crowed  with  glee,  clapping  baby  hands  in  air. 
Peep  she  cried  behind  the  hood  of  the  pushcar  and  Edy  asked  where 
was  Cissy  gone  and  then  Cissy  popped  up  her  head  and  cried  ah !  and, 
my  word,  didn't  the  little  chap  enjoy  that!  And  then  she  told  him 
to  say  papa. 
— Say  papa,  baby,  say  pa  pa  pa  pa  pa  pa  pa. 

And  baby  did  his  level  best  to  say  it  for  he  was  very  intelligent 
for  eleven  months  everyone  said  and  he  would  certainly  turn  out  to  be 
something  great  they  said. 
— Haja  ja  ja  haja. 

Gerty  wiped  his  little  mouth  with  the  dribbling  bib  and  wanted 
him  to  sit  up  properly  and  say  pa  pa  pa  but  when  she  undid  the 
strap  she  cried  out,  holy  saint  Denis,  that  he  was  possing  wet  and 
to  double  the  half  blanket  the  other  way  under  him.  Of  course 
his  infant  majesty  was  most  obstreperous  at  such  toilet  formalities 
and  he  let  everyone  know  it: 
— Habaa  baaaahabaaa  baaaa. 

It  was  all  no  use  soothering  him  with  Ro,  nono,  baby  and  telling 

TheLittleReview  65 

him  all  about  the  geegee  and  where  was  the  puffpuff  but  Ciss,  always 
readywitted,  gave  him  in  his  mouth  the  teat  of  the  suckingbottle  and 
the  young  heathen  was  quickly  appeased. 

Gerty  wished  to  goodness  they  would  take  their  squalling  baby 
home  out  of  that,  no  hour  to  be  out,  and  the  little  brats  of  twins.  She 
gazed  out  towards  the  distant  sea.  It  was  like  a  picture  the  evening 
and  the  clouds  coming  out  and  the  Bailey  light  on  Howth  and  to  hear 
the  music  like  that  and  the  perfume  of  those  incense  they  burned  in 
the  church.  And  while  she  gazed  her  heart  went  pitapat.  Yes,  it 
was  her  he  was  looking  at  and  there  was  meaning  in  his  look.  His 
eyes  burned  into  her  as  though  they  would  search  her  through  and 
through,  read  her  very  soul.  Wonderful  eyes  they  were,  superbly 
expressive,  but  could  you  trust  them?  She  could  see  at  once  by  his 
dark  ej^es  that  he  was  a  foreigner  but  she  could  not  see  whether  he 
had  an  aquiline  nose  from  where  he  was  sitting.  He  was  in  deep 
mourning,  she  could  see  that,  and  the  story  of  a  haunting  sorrow 
was  written  on  his  face.  She  would  have  given  worlds  to  know  what 
it  was.  He  was  looking  up  so  intensely,  so  still  and  he  saw  her  kick 
the  ball  and  perhaps  he  could  see  the  bright  steel  buckles  of  her  shoes 
if  she  swung  them  like  that  thoughtfully.  She  was  glad  that  some- 
thing told  her  to  put  on  the  transparent  stockings  thinking  Reggy 
Wylie  might  be  out  but  that  was  far  away.  Here  was  that  of  which 
she  had  so  often  dreamed.  The  heart  of  the  girl-woman  went  out  to 
him.  If  he  had  suffered,  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  or  even, 
even,  if  he  had  been  himself  a  sinner,  a  wicked  man,  she  cared  not. 
There  were  wounds  that  wanted  healing  and  she  just  yearned  to 
know  all,  to  forgive  all  if  she  could  make  him  fall  in  love  with  her, 
make  him  forget  the  memory  of  the  past.  Then  mayhap  he  would 
embrace  her  gently,  crushing  her  soft  body  to  him  and  love  her  for 
herself  alone. 

Refuge  of  sinners.  Comfortess  of  the  afflicted.  Ora  pro  nobis. 
Well  has  it  been  said  that  whosoever  prays  to  her  with  faith  and  con- 
stancy can  never  be  lost  or  cast  away :  and  fitly  is  she  too  a  haven  of 
refuge  for  the  afflicted  because  of  the  seven  dolours  which  transpierced 
her  own  heart.  Gerty  could  picture  the  whole  scene  in  the  church, 
the  stained  glass  windows  lighted  up,  the  candles,  the  flowers  and  the 

66  The    Little    Review 

blue  banner  of  the  blessed  virgin's  sodality  and  Father  Conroy  was 
helping  Canon  O'Hanlon  at  the  altar,  carrying  things  in  and  out 
with  his  eyes  cast  down.    He  looked  almost  a  saint  and  his  confession- 
box  was  so  quiet  and  clean  and  dark  and  his  hands  were  just  like 
white  wax.     He  told  her  that  time  when  she  told  him  about  that  in 
confession  crimsoning  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  for  fear  he  could 
see,  not  to  be  troubled  because  that  was  only  the  voice  of  nature  and 
we  were  all  subject  to  nature's  laws,  he  said  in  this  life  and  that 
that  was  no  sin  because  that  came  from  the  nature  of  woman  insti- 
tuted by  God,  he  said,  and  that  Our  Blessed  Lady  herself  said  to  the 
archangel  Gabriel  be  it  done  unto  me  accordmg  to  Thy  Word.     He 
was  so  kind   and   holy   and   often   and   otten  she   thought   could  she 
work  an  embroidered  teacosy  for  him  as  a  present  or  a  clock  but  they 
had  a  clock  she  noticed  on   the  mantelpiece  white  and   gold   with   a 
caiuiry  that  came  out  of  a  little  house  to  tell  the  time  the  day  she 
v\'cnt  there  about  the  flowers  for  the  forty  hours'  adoration  because 
it  was  hard  to  know  what  sort  of  a  present  to  give  or  perhaps  an 
album  of  illuminated  views  of  Dublin  or  some  place. 

The  little  brats  of  twins  began  to  quarrel  again  and  Jacky  threw 
t'le  ball  out  towards  the  sea  and  they  both  ran  after  it.  Little  monkeys 
common  as  ditchwater.  Someone  ought  to  take  them  and  give  them 
a  good  hiding  for  themselves  to  keq")  them  m  their  places  the  both 
of  them.  And  Cissy  and  Edy  shouted  after  tliem  to  come  back 
because  they  were  afraid  the  tide  might  come  in  on  them  and  be 
— Jacky !    Tcmmy ! 

Not  they!  What  a  gre  it  notion  tliey  had!  So  Ciss\  said  it  was 
the  very  last  time  she'd  e-ver  bring  them  out.  She  jumped  up  and 
called  and  then  she  ran  down  the  slope  past  him,  tossing  her  hair 
behind  her  which  had  a  good  enough  colour  if  there  had  been  more 
of  it  but  with  all  the  thingamerry  she  was  always  rubbing  in  to  it 
she  couldn't  get  it  to  grow  long  because  it  wasn't  natural  so  she 
could  just  go  and  throw  her  hat  at  it.  She  ran  with  \on%  gandery 
strides  it  was  a  wonder  she  didn't  rip  up  her  skirt  at  the  side  that 
was  too  tight  on  her  because  there  was  a  lot  of  the  tomboy  about 
Cissy  Cafitrey  whenever  she  thought  she  had  a  good  opportunity  to 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  67 

show  off  and  just  because  she  was  a  good  runner  she  ran  like  that 
so  that  he  could  see  all  the  end  of  her  petticoat  running,  and  her 
skinm'  shanks  up  as  far  as  possible.  It  would  have  served  her  just 
right  if  she  had  tripped  up  over  something  with  her  high  French 
heels  on  her  to  make  her  look  tall  and  got  a  fine  tumble.  That  would 
have  been  a  very  charming  expose  for  a  gentleman  like  that  to 

Queen  of  angels,  queen  of  patriarchs,  queen  of  prophets,  of  all 
saints,  they  prayed,  queen  of  the  most  holy  rosary  and  then  Father 
Conroy  handed  the  thurible  to  Canon  O'Hanlon  and  he  put  in  the 
incense  and  censed  the  blessed  sacrament  and  Cissy  Caffrey  caught 
the  two  twins  and  she  w^as  itching  to  give  them  a  good  clip  on  the 
ear  but  she  didn't  because  she  thought  he  might  be  watching  but  she 
never  made  a  bigger  mistake  in  her  life  because  Gerty  could  see  with- 
out looking  that  he  never  took  his  eyes  off  of  her  and  then  Canon 
O'Hanlon  handed  the  thurible  back  to  Father  Conroy  and  knelt 
down  looking  up  at  the  blessed  sacrament  and  the  choir  began  to 
sing  Tantiim  ergo  and  she  just  swung  her  foot  in  and  out  in  time  to 
the  Tantumer  gosa  cramen  turn.  Three  and  eleven  she  paid  for  those 
stockings  in  Sparrow's  of  George's  street  on  the  Tuesday,  no  the 
Monday  before  easter  and  there  wasn't  a  brack  on  them  and  that  was 
what  he  was  looking  at,  transparent,  and  not  at  hers  that  had  neither 
shape  nor  form  because  he  had  eyes  in  his  head  to  see  the  difference 
for  himself. 

Cissy  came  up  along  the  strand  with  the  two  twins  and  their  ball 
with  her  hat  anyhow  on  her  on  one  side  after  her  run  and  she  did 
look  like  a  streel  tugging  the  two  kids  along  with  the  blouse  she 
bought  only  a  fortnight  before  like  a  rag  on  her  back.  Gerty  just 
took  off  her  hat  for  a  moment  to  settle  her  hair  and  a  prettier,  a 
daintier  head  of  nutbrown  tresses  was  never  seen  on  a  girl's  shoulder 
— a  radiant  little  vision,  in  sooth,  almost  maddening  in  its  sweetness. 
You  would  have  to  travel  many  a  long  mile  before  j'ou  found  a  head 
of  hair  the  like  of  that.  She  could  almost  see  the  swift  answering 
flush  of  admiration  in  his  eyes  that  set  her  tingling  in  every  nerve. 
She  put  on  her  hat  so  that  she  could  see  from  underneath  the  brim 
3nd  swung  her  buckled  shoe  faster  for  her  breath  caught  as  she 

68  The    Little    Revie 


caught  the  expression  in  his  eyes.  He  was  eyeing  her  as  a  snake  eyes 
its  prey.  Her  woman's  instinct  told  her  that  she  had  raised  the  devil 
in  him  and  at  the  thought  a  burning  scarlet  swept  from  throat  to 
brow  till  the  lovely  colour  of  her  face  became  a  glorious  rose, 

Edy  Boardman  was  noticing  it  too  because  she  was  squinting  at 
Gerty,  half  smiling  with  her  specs,  like  an  old  maid,  pretending  to 
nurse  the  baby.  Irritable  little  gnat  she  was  and  always  would  be 
and  that  was  why  no  one  could  get  on  with  her,  poking  her  nose 
into  what  ^as  no  concern  of  hers.  And  she  said  to  Gerty : 
— A  penny  for  your  thoughts. 
— What,  laughed  Gerty.     I  was  only  wondering  was  it  late. 

Because  she  wished  to  goodness  they'd  take  the  snotty-nosed  twins 
and  their  baby  home  to  the  mischief  out  of  that  so  that  was  why  she 
just  gave  a  gentle  hint  about  its  being  late.  And  when  Cissy  came 
up  Edy  asked  her  the  time  and  Miss  Cissy,  as  glib  as  you  like,  said  it 
was  half  past  kissing  time,  time  to  kiss  again.  But  Edy  wanted 
to  know  because  they  were  told  to  be  in  early. 

— Wait,  said  Cissy,  I'll  run  ask  my  uncle  Peter  over  there  what's  the 
time  by  his  conundrum. 

So  over  she  went  and  when  he  saw  her  coming  she  could  see  him 
take  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket,  getting  nervous  and  beginning  to  play 
with  his  watchchain,  looking  at  the  church.  Passionate  nature  though 
he  was  Gerty  could  see  that  he  had  enormous  control  over  himself. 
One  moment  he  had  been  there,  fascinated  by  a  loveliness  that  made 
him  gaze  and  the  next  moment  it  was  the  quiet  gravefaced  gentlman, 
scifcontrol  expressed  in  every  line  of  his  distinguished-looking  figure. 

Cissy  said  to  excuse  her  would  he  mind  telling  her  what  was  the 
right  t'me  and  Gerty  could  see  him  taking  out  his  watch  listening  to 
\t  j.nd  looking  up  <';nd  he  said  he  was  very  sorry  his  watch  was 
stopped  but  he  thought  it  must  be  after  eight  because  the  sun  was 
set.  His  voice  had  a  cultured  ring  in  it  and  there  was  a  suspicion 
of  a  quiver  in  the  mellow  tones.  Cissy  said  thanks  and  came  back 
with  her  tongue  out  and  said  his  waterworks  were  out  of  order. 

Tlien  they  sang  the  second  verse  of  the  Tantum  ergo  and  Canon 
O'Hanlon  got  up  again  and  censed  the  blessed  sacrament  and  knelt 
down  and  he  told  Father  Conroy  that  one  of  the  candles  was  just 

T  h  e    Li  t  tl  e    Review  69 

going  to  set  fire  to  the  flowers  and  Father  Conroy  got  up  and  settled 
it  all  right  and  she  could  see  the  gentleman  winding  his  watch  and 
listening  to  the  works  and  she  swung  her  leg  more  in  and  out  in 
time.  It  was  getting  darker  but  he  could  see  and  he  was  looking  all 
the  time  that  he  was  winding  the  watch  or  whatever  he  was  doing  to 
it  and  then  he  put  it  back  and  put  his  hands  back  into  his  pockets. 
She  felt  a  kind  of  a  sensation  rushing  all  over  her  and  she  knew  by 
the  feel  of  her  scalp  and  that  irritation  against  her  stays  that  that 
thing  must  be  coming  on  because  the  last  time  too  was  when  she 
clipped  her  hair  on  account  of  the  moon.  His  dark  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves on  her  again,  drinking  in  her  every  contour,  literally  wor- 
shipping at  her  shrine.  If  ever  there  was  undisguised  admiration  in 
a  man's  passionate  gaze  it  was  there  plain  to  be  seen  on  that  man's 
face.     It  is  for  you,  Gertrude  MacDowell,  and  you  know  it. 

Edy  began  to  get  ready  to  go  and  she  noticed  that  that  little  hint 
she  gave  had  the  desired  effect  because  it  was  a  long  way  along  the 
strand  to  where  there  was  the  place  to  push  up  the  pushcar  and 
Cissy  took  off  the  twins'  caps  and  tidied  their  hair  to  make  herself 
attractive  of  course  and  Canon  O'Hanlon  stood  up  with  his  cope 
poking  up  at  his  neck  and  Father  Conroy  handed  him  the  card  to 
read  off  and  he  read  out  Panem  de  coelo  praestitisti  eis  and  Edy  and 
Cissy  were  talking  about  the  time  all  the  time  and  asking  her  but 
Gerty  could  pay  them  back  in  their  own  coin  and  she  just  answered 
with  scathing  politeness  when  Edy  asked  her  was  she  heartbroken 
about  her  best  boy  throwing  her  over.  Gerty  winced  sharply.  A 
brief  cold  blaze  shot  from  her  eyes  that  spoke  of  scorn  immeasurable. 
It  hurt — O  yes,  it  cut  deep  because  Edy  had  her  own  quiet  way  of 
saying  things  like  that  she  knew  would  wound  like  the  confounded 
little  cat  she  was.  Gerty 's  lips  parted  swiftly  but  she  fought  back  the 
sob  that  rose  to  her  throat,  so  slim,  so  flawless,  so  beautifully  moulded 
it  seemed  one  an  artist  might  have  dreamed  of.  She  had  loved  him 
better  than  he  knew.  Lighthearted  deceived  and  fickle  like  all  his 
sex  he  would  never  understand  what  he  had  meant  to  her  and  for  an 
instant  there  was  in  the  blue  eyes  a  quick  stinging  of  tears.  Their 
eyes  were  probing  her  mercilessly  but  with  a  brave  effort  she  sparkled 

70  T  h  e    L  it  tl  e    R  e  V  i  e  w 

back  in  sympathy  as  she  glanced  at  her  new  conquest  for  them  to  see. 
— O,  she  laughed  and  the  proud  head  flashed  up.  I  can  throw  my 
cap  at  who  I  like  because  it's  leap  year. 

Her  words  rang  out  crystal  clear,  more  musical  than  the  cooing  of 
the  ringdove  but  they  cut  the  silence  icily.  There  was  that  in  her 
young  voice  that  told  that  she  was  not  a  one  to  be  lightly  trifled  with. 
Miss  Edy's  countenance  fell  to  no  slight  extent  and  Gerty  could  see 
by  her  looking  as  black  as  thunder  that  she  was  simply  in  a  towering 
rage  because  that  shaft  had  struck  home  and  they  both  knew  that 
she  was  something  aloof,  apart  in  another  sphere,  that  she  was  not 
of  them  and  never  would  be  and  there  was  somebody  else  too  that 
knew  it  and  saw  it  so  they  could  put  that  in  their  pipe  and  smoke  it. 

Edy  straightened  up  baby  Boardman  to  get  ready  to  go  and  Cissy 
tucked  in  the  ball  and  the  spades  and  buckets  and  it  was  high  time 
too  because  the  sandman  was  on  his  way  for  Master  Boardman 
junior  and  Cissy  told  him  too  that  Billy  Winks  was  coming  and  that 
baby  was  to  go  deedaw  and  baby  looked  just  too  ducky,  laughing  up 
out  of  his  gleeful  eyes,  and  Cissy  poked  him  like  that  out  of  fun  in 
hihs  wee  fat  tummy  and  baby,  without  as  much  as  by  your  leave, 
sent  up  his  compliments  to  all  and  sundry  on  to  his  brand  new 
dribbling  bib. 
— O  my!  Puddney  pie!  protested  Ciss. 

The  slight  contretemps  claimed  her  attention  but  in  two  twos  she 
set  that  little  matter  to  rights. 

Gerty  stifled  a  smothered  exclamation  and  Edy  asked  what  and 
she  was  just  going  to  tell  her  to  catch  it  while  it  was  flying  but  she 
ever  ladylike  in  her  deportment  so  she  simply  passed  it  off  by  saying 
that  that  was  the  benediction  because  just  then  the  bell  rang  out  from 
the  steeple  over  the  quiet  seashore  because  Canon  O'Hanlon  was  up 
on  the  altar  with  the  veil  that  Father  Conroy  put  round  him  round 
his  shoulders  giving  the  benediction  with  the  blessed  sacrament  in  his 

How  moving  the  scene  there  in  the  gathering  twilight,  the  last 
glimpse  of  Erin,  the  touching  chime  of  those  evening  bells  and  at  the 
same  time  a  bat  flew  forth  from  the  ivied  belfry  through  the  dusk, 
hither,  thither,  with  a  tiny  lost  cry.    And  she  could  see  far  away  the 

TheLittletteview  71 

lights  of  the  lighthouses  and  soon  the  lamplighter  would  be  going  his 
rounds  lighting  the  lamp  near  her  window  where  Reggy  Wylie  used 
to  turn  the  bicycle  like  she  read  in  that  book  The  Lamplighter  by 
Miss  Cummins,  author  of  Mabel  Vaughan  and  other  tales.  For 
Gerty  had  her  dreams  that  no  one  knew  of.  She  loved  to  read 
poetry  and  she  got  a  keepsake  from  Bcrha  Supple  of  that  lovely  con- 
fession album  with  the  coralpink  cover  to  write  her  thoughts  in  she 
laid  it  in  the  drawer  of  toilet-table  which  though  it  did  not  err  on 
the  side  of  luxury,  was  scrupulously  neat  and  clean.  It  was  there 
she  kept  her  girlish  treasure  trove  the  tortoiseshell  combs,  her  child 
of  Mary  badge,  the  whiterose  scent,  the  eyebrowleine,  her  alabaster 
pouncetbox  and  the  ribbons  to  change  when  her  things  came  home 
from  the  wash  and  there  were  some  beautiful  thoughts  written  in  it 
in  violet  ink  that  she  bought  in  Wisdom  Hesly's  for  she  felt  that  she 
too  could  write  poetry  if  she  could  only  express  herself  like  that 
poem  she  had  copied  out  of  the  newspaper  she  found  one  evening 
round  the  potherbs  Art  thou  real,  my  ideal?  it  was  called  by  Louis 
J.  Walshe,  Magherafelt,  and  after  there  was  something  about 
twilight,  wilt  thou  ever?  and  often  the  beauty  of  poetry,  so  sad  in  its 
transient  loveliness  had  misted  her  eyes  with  silent  tears  that  the  years 
were  slipping  by  for  her,  one  by  one,  and  but  for  that  one  shortcoming 
she  knew  she  need  fear  no  competition  and  that  was  an  accident 
coming  down  the  hill  and  she  always  tried  to  conceal  it.  But  it  must 
end  she  felt.  If  she  saw  that  magic  lure  in  his  eyes  there  would  be 
no  holding  back  for  her.  Love  laughs  at  locksmiths.  She  would 
make  the  great  sacrifice.  Dearer  than  the  whole  world  would  she 
be  to  him  and  gild  his  days  with  happiness.  There  was  the  all  impor- 
tant question  and  she  was  dying  to  know  was  he  a  married  man  or  a 
widower  who  had  lost  his  wife  or  some  tragedy  like  the  nobleman 
with  the  foreign  name  from  the  land  of  song  had  to  have  her  put 
into  a  madhouse,  cruel  only  to  be  kind.  But  even  if — what  then? 
Would  it  make  a  very  great  difference?  From  everything  in  the 
least  indelicate  her  finebred  nature  instinctively  recoiled.  She  loathed 
that  sort  of  person,  the  fallen  woman  off  the  accommodation  walk 
beside  the  Dodder  that  went  with  the  soldiers  and  coarse  men,  de- 
grading the  sex  and  being  taken  up  to  the  police  station.     No,  no: 

72  T  h  e    Little    Re  vie  w 

not  that.  They  would  be  just  good  friends  in  spite  of  the  conventions 
of  society  with  a  big  ess.  Perhaps  it  was  an  old  flame  he  was  in 
mourning  for  from  the  days  beyond  recall.  She  thought  she  under- 
stood. She  would  try  to  understand  him  because  men  were  so 
different.  The  old  love  was  waiting,  waiting  with  little  white  hands 
stretched  out,  with  blue  appealing  eyes.  She  would  follow  the  dic- 
tates of  her  heart  for  love  was  the  master  guide.  Nothing  else  mat- 
tered.   Come  what  might  she  would  be  wild,  untrammelled,  free. 

{To  be  continued) 

The  Reader  Critic 


Dear  Little  Revieivers: 

Can  you  tell  me  when  James  Joyce's  "Ulysses"  will  appear  in  book 
form?  Do  you  think  the  public  will  ever  be  ready  for  such  a  book?  I 
read  him  each  month  with  eagerness,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  am  defeated 
in  my  intelligence.  Now  tell  the  truth, — do  you  yourselves  know  where 
the  story  is  at  the  present  moment,  how  much  time  has  elapsed, — just 
where  are  we?     Have  you  any  clue   as  to  when  the  story  will  end? 

["Ulysses"  will  probably  appear  in  book  form  in  America  if  there  is  a 
publisher  for  it  who  will  have  sense  enough  to  avoid  the  public.  Joyce  has 
perfected  a  technique  that  has  enabled  him  to  avoid  almost  all  but  those 
rabid  for  literature.  We  haven't  any  advance  chapters  in  hand,  but  it 
would  seem  that  we  are  drawing  towards  the  Circe  episode  and  the  close 
of  the  story.  The  question  of  time  seems  simple  and  unobscured.  The 
story  is  laid  in  perhaps  the  talk  centre  of  the  universe,  but  time  is  not 
affected ;  the  time  of  the  present  chapter  is  about  five  thirty  or  six  in  the 
evening  of  the  same  day  on  which  the  story  started, — I  think  Tuesday. 
Mr.  Bloom  has  had  a  long  day  since  he  cooked  his  breakfast  of  kidney, 
but  he  has  lost  no  time. — jhJ] 


To  Djuna  Barnes: 

I  was  much  pleased  to  receive  the  Little  Revieiv.  And  I  immediately  read 
your  picture  of  degeneracy,  entitled  "Oscar."  I  am  happy  to  note  that  it  in 
no  wise  reminds  me  of  that  other  Oscar  (Wilde)  who  was  worth  while — 
very  much  worth  while — in  spite  of  his  errors. 

The     Little     Review  73 

I  have  read  it  through  a  second  time  and  now  feel  sure  that  I  read  it 
the  first  time.  If  I  should  read  it  a  third  time — I  think  I  should  read  it  a 
fourth  and  even  a  fifth  time.  So  1  will  not.  I  am  satisfied  already,  and 
desire  to  sleep  to-night,  without  keeping  company  with  all  those  Barn-shadows 
with  which  you  so  forcefully  enshroud  your  picture. 

Of  course  it  is  a  picture — not  a  study — of  some  of  that  morbidity  which 
is  so  prevalent  during  these  days  of  the  Overwrought,  or  Kublkul  In- 
sanity of  the  world.  But  it  will  do  no  real  lasting  good,  and  will  not 
help  you  to  Arrive  in  that  Field  of  Real  Endeavor,  to  which  you  should 
aspire — and  pefhaps  will  some  day,  finally,  enter. 

Your  longing  to  be  "original,"  strange,  compelling,  is  only  too  crudely 
evident  in  your  prose  work;  and  by  the  same  token,  that  is  why  you  may 
never  hope  to  Achieve  the  Worth  While,  so  long  as  you  allow  yourself 
to  be  thus  held  down  by,  what  I  may  term,  your  lower  self.  There  is  a 
big  better  self — the  real  Djuna — asleep  now,  but  to  awaken,  sometime. 

This  is  evidenced  by  the  real  power  in  the  things  you  write,  in  the  remark- 
able atmosphere  of  your  work,  in  the  fine  power  of  imagination  which  I 
find  here  and  there  in  the  things  I  have  read,  of  yours,  in  this  same  "Oscar," 
and  in  the  few  poems  I  have  come  across  in  some  of  the  magazines.  Your 
poetry  is  much  the  best  thing  you  do — better  artistry,  as  a  rule.  Your 
prose  is  crude,  unpolished,  erratic.  You  should  stop  trying  for  effects  for 
mere  effects'  sake,  and  allow  the  effect  to  come  naturally,  as  it  surely  will, 
when  you  forget  Djuna,  and  become  the  writer  you  may  become,  if  you  will 
only  see  the  necessity  for  the  suppression  of  mere  vulgar  eccentricity — in 
the  desire  to  surprise — so  that  you  may  write  of  things  as  they,  balanced, 

Why  do  you  not  ivake  up  to  the  tivist  of  the  little  Bohemia  you  are  in, 
and  drop  that  warp — taking  up  the  thread  of  the  things  in  life  that  count 
and  ivhich  must  be  lielped  along?  Then,  you  might  become  of  some  real 
worth  in  life's  long,  hard  battle — and  help,  where  you  now  simply  waste 
your  time  and  your  gift. 

[There  is  something  batrachian  in  the  above  comment  and  advice.  I  can 
see  men  all  over  America  like  William  Jennings  Bryan  and  Elbert  Hubbard 
exuding  wisdom  which  they  draw  from  the  morass  in  which  they  sit  rather 
than  from  a  brain, — men  who  have  themselves  so  longer  to  be  "original," 
"strange,"  "compelling,"  that  even  in  the  end  they  seek  fame  by  exhibiting 
their  discardings. — ;//.] 

The   Modest   Woman 

Helen  Bishop  Dennis,  Boston: 

I  notice  that  the  first  letter  under  the  Reader  Critic  in  your  April  issue 
suggests  that  "after  all  these  months  James  Joyce  might  be  accepted,  ob- 
scenity and  all,  for  ....  only  a  few  read  him,  and  those  few  not  just 
the  kind  to  have  their  whole  moral  natures  overthrown  by  frankness  about 
natural  functions." 

The  mistake  you  people  make  is  in  thinking  that  we  "prudes"  who 
don't  like  Joyce  are  concerned  with  morals.  Morality  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  Does  morality  have  anything  to  do  with  the  average  person's 
desire    for    privacy    concerning    the    "natural    functions"  ?      Not    at    all ;    it 

74  T  he    Little    Review 

is  delicacy,  lack  of  vulgarity.  I  do  not  think  we  need  to  apologize  for 
this   delicacy   and   lack   of   vulgarity,    even   to   your   superior   beings. 

There  is  a  certain  form  of  mental  unbalance — about  the  lowest  form — 
that  takes  delight  in  concentration  on  the  "natural  functions..  .  All  at- 
tendants in  insane  asylums  are  familiar  with  it.  Does  James  Joyce  belong 
to  those  so  affected?  Do  "the  few  who  read  him"  belong?  If  not,  and 
Joyce  and  his  readers  are  to  be  considered  fairly  sane,  would  he — and 
they — be  willing  to  perform  their  "natural  functions"  in  public?  If  not, 
why  take  out  a  desire  for  dabbling  in  filth,  in  writing  in  public? 

The  only  cure  for  the  nausea  he  causes  is  the  thought  that  "only  a  few 
read  him."  I  think  the  Little  Revieiv  has  become  a  disgustingly  artificial 
and  affected  publication.  You  started  out  to  be  sincere,  unconventional,  to 
refuse  to  pander  to  commercialism,  etc.:  a  wonderfully  courageous  and 
admirable  ambition.  But  you  are  a  great  disappointment  to  those  of  us 
who  hoped  great  things  for  you.  'You  are  like  a  crowd  of  precocious, 
■'smarty  cat,"  over-wise  children,  showing  off.  I  know  of  no  one  who 
has  anything  for  you  now  but  pity,  mingled  with  contempt  and  disap- 
pointment— and  this  from  people  who  were  once  your  friends  and  admirers. 

[Yes,  I  think  you  must  be  right.  I  once  knew  a  woman  so  modest  that 
she  didn't  wear  underwear:  she  couldn't  stand  its  being  seen  in  the  wash.] 

Unpayable  Debts'' 

C.  R.  S.,  Columbus,  Ohio: 

I  enclose  a  check  for  your  Fund.    .    .    . 

This  is  an  opportunity  to  discharge  in  a  small  way  a  debt  that  would  be 
difficult  if  not  impossible  totally  to  discharge.  In  the  Little  Revieiv  I  learned 
that  I  was  a  human  through  learning  that  others  had  the  same  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  had  many  years  been  mine,  but  which  through  a  false  philosophy 
or  teaching  were  regarded  as  deserving  of  repression  until  the  light  of  the 
Little  Rei'ieiv  showed  them  worthy  of  expression. 

It  is  terrible  too  that,  in  a  world  of  so  great  abundance  to  supply  the  needs 
and  wants  of  all,  there  must  needs  be  so  much  struggle  and  effort  and  waste 
to  accomplish  the  results  one  aims  at,  even  in  a  very  limited  way. 

Commendable  indeed  are  the  efforts  that  you  and  your  co-workers  have 
made  in  the  face  of  so  many  discouraging  handicaps,  and  that  you  may  be 
able  to  go  on  and  realize  to  the  full  the  object  of  your  efforts  is  my  earnest 

G.  B.  M.,  Brooklyn: 

I  add  this  comment  on  your  May  number.  It  is  not  surprising  that  "in 
a  city  of  millionaires,  ....  the  Arts  go  begging  and  penniless."  When 
all  the  economic  pros  and  cons  are  in,  when  all  the  items  on  the  long  list  of 
the  indictment  against  capitalism  are  checked  off,  the  last  overshadowing 
terrifically  damning  charge  against  our  present  industrialism  can  be  brought 
in: — capitalism  has  vulgarized  the  world  more  completely  than  it  has  ever 
been  before.  With  an  accent  of  unashamed  bitterness,  I  ask  the  Little 
Revieiv:  What  can  you  expect  in  the  way  of  interest  and  financial  support 
from  a  shifting  leisure  class  composed  of  those  inferiors  whom  capitalism 
forces  to  the  top  ? 


/^  EJECT — -To  establish  world  peace  by  peaceful  methods 
^^  regardless  of  race,  creed  or  boundary  lines.     To  oppose  all 
wars,  combat  militarism,  and  speed  world  disarmament. 

To  oppose  all  profiteering  at  human  expense  whether  on 
the  field  of  industry  or  that  of  battle.  To  study,  reveal  and 
publish  the  cost  of  violence  to  humanity  realizing  that  reason 
and  good  will  must  triumph  to  secure  a  perfect  and  happy 


(List  Incomplete) 

Abbey  Scott  Baker,     B.  M.  Langdon  Davies— England, 

Madeleine  Z.  Doty,     W.  E.  B.  DuBois,      Monica 

Ewer— England,     W.  E.  Ewer— England,     Mrs.  Alfred  Hayes, 

Miss    Jessie    Hughan,       Joseph    Jablonower,      Mrs.    Marietta 

Johnson,     Charles  Lanier,       Henry  R.  Linville,      Mary  MacArthur 

—England,     Marjorie  Manas— England, 

Rev.  Geo.    F.  Miller,     Mrs.    Daniel    O'Day,     Robert 

A.  Parker,    Kate  O.  Petersen,    Mr.  and  Mrs.  Royal 

— France,     Rev.    Norman  Thomas 

I  endorse  this  program  and  will  allow  the  use  of  my  name 
with  the  understanding  that  it  entails  no  further  obligations. 



Address  all  commufiications: 

MRS.  J.  SERGEANT  CRAM,  P.  O.  Box  No.  4,  Station  Y, 

New  York  City,  N.  Y. 

76  The    Little    Review 

Are   there   lyOOO  people   in    America 

It  is  not  realized  that  the  "Little  Review"  alone 
in  Aynerica  is  performing  a  function  performed  by 
at  least  a  dozen  reviews  in  France  and  by  eight  or 
ten  in  England. 


N  a  city  of  millionaires,  nearly  all  of  whom  make  some  strong 
pretense  of  being  interested  in  the  Arts,  we  have  been  pub- 
lishing for  three  years  the  only  magazine  that  has  a  legitimate 
and  sympathetic  connection  with  the  artist. 

Any  professional  or  business  man,  any  statesman  of  intelligence, 
will  admit  that  in  the  last  analysis  it  is  the  Arts,  and  the  Arts  alone, 
that  give  lustre  to  a  nation.  And  yet  in  this  country,  most  glar- 
ingly lacking  in  lustre,  the  Arts  go  begging  and  penniless. 

Oppressed  at  every  turn  by  a  new  financial  difficulty,  we  have 
been  able  in  spite  of  this  to  establish  some  intellectual  communication 
between  England,  France  and  America  by  presenting  the  best  of  the 
creative  work  produced  in  those  countries  today. 

The  amount  of  money  we  need,  our  other 

assets  being  so  strong,  is  $5,000.     If  we 

can   obtain   this  sum  for  one  year  we 

can     push     through     an     advertising 

campaign  that  will  carry  us  along, 

making   it  possible   to   meet   the 

criminally    increased    cost    of 

publication  and  to  pay  our 

contributors     somewhat. 

The    Little    Review  77 

w/)o  will  give  $5,  apiece  to  our  fund? 


before  in  A 

m  eric  a 







of  the  creative  imp 






materialistic  vision  so 

eclipsed  the  desire  for 



even  the 


of  it. 


VERY  artist  realizes  that  as  long  as  we  exist  there  is  one 
magazine  in  America  in  which  he  may  present  himself 
to  his  audience  directly,  uncensored,  and  unhindered  by 
a  "policy."  The  Little  Review  is  the  one  Freie  Biihne 
in  the  country. 

It  is  also  the  one  Art  project  that  has  shown  by  its  vicissitudes, 
its  incorruptibility  and  its  endurance,  the  essential  need  for  such  a 

But  the  situation  today  is  almost  insurmountable.  The  present 
format  of  the  magazine  costs  us  just  four  times  as  much  as  formerly. 
We  must  meet  this  deficit,  and  we  must  pay  our  contributors. 

Make  checks  payable   to   the  Little   Review 
Fund,  27  ff'est  Eighth  Street.    If  you  can 
not   send   $S   send   any    thing   you   can. 
The    smallest    donation    will    be    ap- 

Help  us  to  attain  the  $5,000 
mark     in     a     month     or    two. 
The    results    will    interest 

Three   Books   by 

Robert  De  Camp 

of  interest  to  the  literati 

Roses  and  Rebellion 

Boards  yjc 

Purple  Youth  Boards  $T 
Syncopation        Cloth  $2 

Poet  and  satirist,  Leland,  of  modern 
writers,  best  carries  forward  the  tra- 
dition of  Heine.  In  these  three 
volumes  you  will  find  satire  that  is 
authentic;  art  rather  than  vaudeville. 
Innocent  huftbonery  undoubtedly  has 
its  place;  the  unenlightened  must  be 
entertained.  But  in  these  books  by 
Leland  the  discerning  will  not  be 

TuhUshed  at  Boston  by 
The  Poetry-Drama  Company 

Si  jrl 

I  Owing  to  the  de-  I 

I  I 

I  plorable  state  of  I 

1  1 

1  1                                  1           r 

I  the  paper  market  p 

I  we  are  forced  to  I 

P  i 

i  make  this  a  dou-  a 

fil  Die  number           I 

is^n^i^^sgmsss^gr  m^  asas 







REQUIRED    BY    THE    ACT    OF    CONGRESS,    OF    AUGUST    24,    1912. 
OF     THE     LITTLE     REVIEW,     published     monthly     at     New     York,     iV.     V.,     for 

April    1,    1920. 

State  of   New   York,   County   of   New   York,   ss. 

Before  me,  a  Notary  Public  in  and  for  the  State  and  county  aforesaid,  personal!}' 
appeared  Margaret  C.  Andtrson.  who.  having  been  duly  sworn  according  to  law, 
deposes  and  says  that  she  is  the  Publisher,  Editor,  Owner,  Business  Manager 
of  THE  LITTLE  REVIEW,  and  that  the  following  is,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge 
and  belief,  a  true  statement  of  the  ownership,  management  (and  if  a  daily  paper,  the 
circulation),  etc.,  of  the  aforesaid  publication  for  the  date  shown  in  the  above  cap- 
tion, required  by  the  Act  of  August  2-1,  1912,  embodied  in  section  443,  Postal  Laws 
and   Regulations,   printed  on   the  reverse  of  this   form ;   to   wit : 

1.  That  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  publisher,  editor,  managing  edllor.  and 
bu.siness    managers   are  : 

Publisher,  Margaret  C.  Anderson,  27  W.  Eighth  St.,  New  "S'ork  ;  Elito--.  Margaret 
C.  .Anderson,  27  W.  Eighth  St.,  New  York;  Managing  Editor.  Mnrgarer  C.  An,lers"i, 
?7  W.  Eighth  St.,  New  York  ;  Business  Manager.  Margaret  C.  Anderson.  27  W. 
Eighth    St.,    New    York. 

2.  That  the  owner  is,   Margaret   C.    Anderson. 

.1.  l"bat  the  known  bondholders,  mortgagees,  and  othe-  ■■'■curity  lio'ders  owu'ng 
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4.  That  the  two  paragraphs  next  above,  giving  the  names  of  owners,  stockholders, 
a.nd.  security  holders,  if  any,  contain  not  only  the  list  of  is'iockholders  and  security 
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tlip  stockholder  or  security  bolder  ajipear  upon  the  books  of  the  comn.iny  as 
trustee  or  in  any  other  fiduciary  relation,  the  name  of  the  person  or  corporation  for 
whom  such  trustee  is  acting,  is  given  ;  also  that  the  said  two  paragraphs  contain 
s'atements  embracing  affiant's  full  knowledge  and  belief  as  to  the  circumstances  and 
conditions  under  which  stockholders  and  security  holdt>-s  who  do  not  aiipear  tipi^n  the 
books  of  the  company  as  trustees,  hold  stock  and  securities  in  a  capacity  other  than 
that  of  a  bona  fide  owner;  and  this  affiant  has  no  reason  to  believe  that  anv  other 
person,  association,  or  corporation,  has  any  interest  direct  or  indirect  in  the  said  stock, 
bonds,  or  other  securities  than  as  so   stated  by   her. 

Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this  25th  day   of   March,    1920. 

M.     RABINOWITZ,    Notary    Public. 

(My  commission  expires  March  30,   1921) 


^arij  garden  (9hoeolatesr 

'Q/our  (Phoeolates^aw  really  the  ffne^ThaVe 
€\)er  tasted  aniJujherG  in  the  "World  ^^ 









'kl  J;".*; 




mtkmme  no  conmhmnisi  wmi  fm  mibuc  fAsra 


A u  gu  s  t  I  g  2  0 

The  Art  of  Poetry  Richard  Aldington     166 

is  a  definitive  statement  of  the  principles  and  practice 
of  a  new  art.  It  is  neither  a  manifesto  nor  an  explana- 
tion. It  is  a  statement  and  a  definition  of  terms  which 
will  prove  as  interesting  and  as  significant  as  the  first 
Imagiste  anthology  several  years  ago. 

Six  Poems  William  Carlos  Williams     162 

Illuminations  Arthur  Rimbaud  x   181 

Poems   and    Poems   in   Prose 
Une  Maison  Emanuel  Fay 

Four  Literary  Studies  Stuart  Davis    ■ 

Drawings  in  pencil  and  pen  and  ink 
The  Ci-devant  Michael  Arlen     125 

The    author's    first    book    was    a    little    hastily    credited 
to  George  Moore. 
(All  of  the  above  in  the  section  devoted  to  Modern  Forms) 

"Thus  to  Revisit  ..."  Ford  Madox  Hueffer     132 

More    delightful    reminiscences 
Thieves  James  Stephens     142 

Shakespeare  Romain  Rolland     109 

And    twelve    other   titles — in    art,    criticism,    and    verse. 

As  always,  a  full  magazine. 

THE    DIAL,    152    West    13th    Street,    N.    Y.    City.        :■ 

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Photograph  of  James  Joyce 

Magic  Mary  Butts 


Fluctuation  Anthony  Wrynn 


Mother  Djuna  Barnes 

Drawing  Stuart  Davis 

Chanson  on  Petit  Hypertrophiquc  John  Rodker 

Four  Chronological  Poems  Malcolm  Cowley 

Black  Umbrellas  Ben  Hecht 

In  the  Country  Robert  Reiss 

Poems  Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 

Study  Charles  Ellis 

Discussion : 

"The  Public  Taste" 


May  Sinclair  in  the  "English  Review" 

"The  Modest  Woman" 
Arrested  Movement  Jerome  Blum 

Ulysses  (Episode  XIII  concluded)  James  Joyce 

A  New  Testament  (XI  and  XII)  Sherwood  Anderson 

The  Reader  Critic 

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by  Mary  Butts 

ON  the  wall  behind  him  and  above  his  right  ear  a  nail-head 
was  sunk  in  the  plaster.     When  she  had  sat  down  and 
tranquillised  her  perceptions  she  balanced  her  eyes  on  it 
to  keep  the  tilt  of  her  head.     The  north  light  swam  in, 
upon  her  cheeks,  exposing  the  shiny  down  of  the  lip,  the 
hollow  pores  on  each  side  of  the  nose.     In  front  she  saw  his  shoulders 
cutting  the  light  square,  and  his  bent  head  black  against  the  light  like 
an  auk's  egg  tilted  on  the  top  of  a  rock. 

For  ten  minutes  she  listened  to  his  pencil  inscribing  its  version  of 
her  image.  Ronsard  m'a  celebre  aux  temps  que  j'etais  belle.  It  had 
been  a  sufficient  sentence.  She  would  be  what  she  was  for  another  ten 
years,  and  more  than  that  when  she  died.  In  the  moment's  compla- 
cency her  eyelids  fell,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  crept  up. 

Painters  are  not  concerned  with  youth  or  age.  They  are  not  finally 
interested  in  your  phenomena  extended  in  time  and  space.  They  use 
it  to  present  appearance  in  reality.  Reality  swallows  phenomena  and 
puffs  them  out  in  patterns  discerned  in  the  arrangement  of  antitheses. 
A  good  painter  is  free  of  the  pain  of  opposites.  He  leads  out  the 
arrangement  in  reality  by  hand  or  claw.  He  was  examining  her 

A  "rapture  of  the  intellect"  stirred  her.  Her  eyes,  shifted  from 
the  nail-head,  had  drawn  her  chin  along  under  then).    She  fixed  them 

The     Little     Review 

Time  ran  on.  The  plaster  round  the  nail-head  blazed  and  swam. 
She  clung  to  the  dark  point.  It  put  out  rays.  The  shelf  above  it 
slid,  and  the  books  became  an  arbitrary  prism.  She  stepped  out  of 
her  body.  Immediately  in  place  of  his  leaning  shoulders,  a  black  rock 
appeared,  a  granite  bubble,  and  over  it  trembled  the  black  star.  She 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  senses,  knowing  that  with  the  least  ad- 
justment the  star  and  the  black  mountain  would  slide  again  into  their 
terrestrial  positions.  In  the  senses  or  out  they  were  there  together, 
two  creatures,  at  perception,  their  relation  sustained  by  her  eyes  fixed 
till  they  swarted  on  a  black  star.  Why  should  it  be  black?  Because 
of  a  formula  the  hair  rose  shivering  along  her  back. 

A  mountain  has  roots. 

"That  will  dof" 

The  phrase  followed  her  about  the  town.  She  had  said  first  "Into 
the  darkness  at  the  roots  of  the  mountains,"  curtseying  about  the 
beats.  Then  she  considered  its  meaning  and  trimmed  it  into  a  respect- 
able statement,  training  her  ear  out  of  its  predecessor  until  each  time 
she  said  "mountain"  and  "roots"  it  was  like  a  harpoon  launched  from 
a  masthead  into  a  whale  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

The  next  day  she  walked  along  the  cliffs  to  his  house,  shaping  her 
image.  She  had  remembered  that  when  he  looked  into  her  it  was 
with  no  ambiguity  of  perception.  She  must  hurry  where  the  pace 
could   not   be   forced.      Her  eyes   picked   up   the   niil-head   and   held 

on This  time  she  became  a  bird,  wings  out,   flat  against  the 

rock,  gauging  its  surface,  its  unimaginable  volume,  gripping  a  minute 
ridge  with  cold,  clawed  feet.  Breast  to  breast  with  him.  A  feather 
breast  was  on  wrinkled  stone,  and  could  not  mix.  Outside  the 
senses  she  was  repeating  the  external  forms,  hito  the  darkness  at  the 
roots  of  the  mountains.  Abominable  sing-song.  Jazz  to  it  then. 
Follow  him,  cancel  it  out.  A  way  of  speaking  that  is  good  enough 
for  the  emotions  is  not  good  enough  for  the  plainest  writing.  A 
great  painter  was  at  work  on  her.  A  mountain  has  roots.  She  became 
a  bird  again.  The  rock  was  heeling  over  onto  her,  it  had  put  out 
arms.  She  would  lie  under  it  spatchcocked  till  she  turned  fossil. 
Let  him  go.  Give  it  up.  She  passed  out  the  contact  with  her  wing- 
tip?,!  ^n^i  >Yh?ded  off  on  a  fan  of  whistling  air,    Th^r?  wa?  the  niqun' 

The    Little    Re  vie 

tain  and  under  it  deep  water,  stirring,  fingering  its  side,  running  down, 
stooping  and  as  silently  lifted  up.  Under  that  sea  the  mountain 
had  its  roots.  When  she  turned  back  the  sea  would  it  be  resting  on 
a  cushion  of  conger  eels?  It  seemed  that  it  was  ready  to  be  exposed. 
A  diving  bird  could  not  part  it.  The  moon  must  be  caught  waxing 
and  the  extreme  spring  tides.  In  the  night  the  water  would  be  drawn 
back  and  in  the  morning  she  would  see  the  thing  it  covered  and  agree 
for  the  water  to  cover  it  again. 

She  left  him,  expectant  to  the  point  of  tranquillity.  The  days 

The  house  where  he  worked  was  down  sixteen  stone  steps,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  passage  all  of  old  stones  oozing  at  the  cracks.  She  walked 
down  them  and  looked  up  before  leaving  the  uncovered  air  and  saw  a 
flake  of  the  moon  left  on  the  edge  of  the  roof.  She  looked  down  and 
saw  the  roots  of  the  house  were  the  roots  of  the  mountain  uncovered  by 
the  moon.  With  the  moon  had  risen  storm,  green  sheets  of  water 
were  poured  in  shaken  out  and  flung  back,  uncovering  what  had 
been  laid  there  from  the  foundation  of  the  world.  In  a  fury  of 
wind  the  sea  was  ripped  back  and  exposed  a  rock,  long  dark,  of  a 
precise  smooth  elegance,  and  a  bird  was  swooping  on  it.  The  su.i 
rolled  over  it.    The  sea  covered  it  again. 

^  "That's  right,  old  mountain!  You  would  have  rolled  me  out  if 
I  had  not  had  wings." 

He  came  out  to  meet  her.  She  followed  him  in  briskly,  and  settled 
herself  for  a  journey  with  her  eyes  on  the  nail.  Under  the  form  of  a 
rock  she  had  seen  him  naked,  a  pure-shape  among  the  basis  of  the 
hills.  In  bird-shape  she  had  freed  herself  of  his  contact.  She  could 
now  entertain  it  or  as  easily  leave.  She  did  not  know  the  rock's 
significance,  but  at  the  end  of  this  observation  would  come  know- 
ledge, and  out  of  knowledge  power.  He  had  explored  her  image. 
He  had  seen  her  before  she  had  so  much  as  arrived  at  their  formula. 
If  he  reigned.     She  though  late  would  reign  also. 

I\Iais  pour  regner  :l  faut  se  taire. 

Behind  their  signatures  was  the  source  of  signatures,  the  life  which 
is  all  life  and  no  death,  where  he  and  his  drawing  moved,  were 
mixed,  and  poured  out. 

The    Little    Review 

There  appeared  the  figure  of  a  triangle,  the  base  given  in  the  world. 
From  one  known  she  was  to  complete  this  figure  of  divine  geometry. 
She  had  seen  a  black  star.  Quod  superius,  sicut  inferive  est,  and  this 
morning  it  had  remained  obstinately  a  nail. 

There  is  an  abyss  also.  She  must  explore  that  and  as  readily  as 
the  starry  sky.  Et  pour  regner  il  faut  se  taire.  Accepted  also. 
Let  it  go. 


by  Anthony    JVrynn 

Ah  Life  that  has  no  end.  .  . 
deep  within  the  fortress  of  myself 
'                              growths- 
Wander — 
O  wander  my  spirit 

and    here 
through  this  forest  of  green  brass. 

quiver  my  delicate  bones, 
call  out 

O  quivering  heart 
•  in  this  forest  \     ,. 

of  endless  motionlessness. 

\  Cool  '  ' 

and  verdant  metal 
passes  across  my  sides, 
and  I  am  consecrated — 

Life  without  death. 


by  Anthony    Wrynn 

ALL  morning  the  air  was  heavy  with  mist — early  summer 
mist,  warm  and  reposing.  Yet  around  noon  it  became 
indoorlike  and  emasculating.  Poised  insanity  of  op- 
pression formed  in  me  around  that  hour.  Slowly  has  it 
been  forming  all  through  the  morning.  And  the  agony, 
passive  as  it  was,  became  so  great  it  was  the  abstract  suffering  of  an 
historic  Roland  or  Ulysses. 

Eyeless,  in  such  sodden  desolation,  I  passed  into  the  park  and  sat 
with  the  many  people  that  are  there  waiting — the  detached,  solitary 
waiting  of  Roland  or  Ulysses. 

The  heat-laden  mist  began  movement  of  great  depth.  It  passed 
in,  and  out,  and  through  the  fainting  green,  in  and  out  through  the 
fainting  people.  It  clushed  close  beneath  their  coats,  and  waists,  and 
carried  loveblood  from  each  of  us,  to  the  other. — Slowly  I  became 
more  free.  Slowly  movement  began  in  me ;  and  in  a  moment  of  great 
tone  I  kissed  close  the  sweating  mouth  of  a  girl,  deep,  within  my 

For  three  days  I  have  been  alone,  walking  through  tight  Brooklyn. 
Up  one  street — down  another.  Today  I  wandered  under  the  burnin  ^ 
fog  up  Fifth  Avenue,  from  Union  Square  to  here,  a  place  of  shattering 

Two  days  passed — and  I  walked  through  the  summer  streets. 

Today  I  met  Clement  for  the  last  time.  Madl.mad  I  almost  went 
with  anaemic  attempts  of  friendship. — It  is  nof  a  necessity — merely 
a  thin,  grey-water  dissipation,  for  a  deformed  and  uncreative  mind. — 

I  am  becoming  too  interested. 

There  is  not  (or,  is  there  not)  one  man  or  one  woman  to  wnom  I 
can  talk — to  whom  I  can  listen.     The  last,  surely,  being  you. 

I  carry  about  in  my  book  a  coloured  post  card,  to  be  forwarded 
to  some  one.    I  keep  that  card ;  I  do  pnt  scad  it,  for  since  my  isolation 

The    Little     Review 

is  a  great  pressure  on  me  I  fancy,  at  times,  it  is  a  card  to  me,  and 
1  like  that,  the  contact  is  good.  Good,  not  because  it  is  j^ou,  for  I 
dislike  you. 

Though  it's  your  card  that  I  carry  around,  so  I  thought  I'd  tell 
about  it. 

Today  has  been  wet-hot,  making  poise  within  me  quake,  as  I  en- 
counter beauty  gone  to  seed.  I  met  a  boy  I  love  greatly.  He  can  not 
requite  my  love.    Only  trees  and  water  can  requite  my  love. 

I  leave  him,  and  pass  on  through  the  fuming  streets,  wet  heat 
clenching  at  my  heart  and  holding  down  my  wrists.  Long  time  I 
wandered,  trying  to  keep  repose  of  myself.  Throes  of  sterile  isola- 
tions sunk  deep  in  my  throat,  and  I  paused. 

A  delicate,  cool  air  wafts  across  a  high  rock  in  the  park — across 
my  temples.    Very  few  moments  pass.     I  create  many  impressions 

Now  I  have  a  quiet  peace  for  remaining  day. 


by^  Anthony    Wi^y  n  n 

TIGHTENING!  of  the  air  all  about. 
Gradual  ceasing 
in  tension, 
to  pulsation 
of  muffled  thuds. 

A  white  flicker  across  some  one's  lips. 
Four  fingers  come  slowly  into  their  own  palm, 
and  clench. 

The  thud  in  a  throat  becomes  heavier. 
The  thud  in  a  thousand  throats  becomes  heavier. 
The  thud  in  millions  of  throats  becomes  heavier. — 
and  a  nation  is  at  war. 

The     Little     R  e  v  i  e 

Delicately  twined  muscles 
on   legs   and   thighs   of   young   men 
tighten,  and  give, 
tighten,  and  give. 

now   nourishing   the   roots   of   trees 
in  other  countries 
execute  strategies  of  war : 
send  timid  notes  of  hope 
to  a  dazed  lover : 

in  among  disorder  of  papers  and  linen, 
for   a  secreted   token : 
hurriedly  into  ardent  hand  of  some  one, 
then  out, 

through  a  door — 
through  a  far  away. 

All  day  the  glistening  sun  has  been  finely  poised, 

in  its  monomotion  above  the  earth. 

Quiet  green  has  rested  on  the  mountains. 

Quiet  warmth  has  been  glowing  along  the  ungiving  pavements 

of  the  city  streets. 

A  calm  early-summer  has  sunk  into  breasts  of  the  people 

moving  about  the  streets  of  the  city, 
along  the  pathways  in  the  mountains. 



powerful  roots  of  the  oaks, 

gentle  roots  of  the  wheat, 

lap  into  themselves, 

into  their  firm  centers, 

the  nourisment 

of   mouldering  hands 

long  gone. 


by   Djuna   Barnes 

A  FEEBLE  light  flickered  in  the  pawn  shop  at  twenty 
nine.  Usually,  in  the  back  of  this  shop,  reading  by  this 
light — a  rickety  lamp  with  a  common  green  cover — sat 
Lydia  Passova,  the  mistress. 

Her  long  heavy  head  was  divided  by  straight  bound 
hair.  Her  high  firm  bust  was  made  still  higher  and  still  firmer  by 
German  corsets.  She  was  excessively  tall,  due  to  extraordinarily  long 
legs.  Her  eyes  were  small,  and  not  well  focused.  The  left  was 
slightly  distended  from  the  long  use  of  a  magnifying  glass. 

She  was  middle  aged,  and  very  slow  in  movement,  though  well 
balanced.  She  wore  coral  in  her  ears,  a  corkl  necklace,  and  many 
coral  finger  rings. 

There  was  about  her  jewelry  some  of  the  tragedy  of  all  articles  that 
find  themselves  in  pawn,  and  she  moved  among  the  trays  like  the 
guardians  of  cemetary  grounds,  who  carry  about  with  them  some  of 
the  lugubrious  stillness  of  the  earth  on  which  they  have  been  standing. 

She  dealt,  in  most  part  in  cameos,  garnets,  and  a  great  many  in- 
laid bracelets  and  cuff-links.  There  were  a  few  watches  however,  and 
silver  vessels  and  fishing  tackle  and  faded  slippers — and  when,  at 
night,  she  lit  the  lamp,  these  and  the  trays  of  precious  and  semi- 
precious stones,  and  the  little  ivory  crucifixes,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
window,  seemed  to  be  leading  a  swift  furtive  life  of  their  own,  con- 
scious of  the  slow  pacing  woman  who  was  known  to  the  street  as 
Lydia  Passova,  but  to  no  thing  else. 

Not  even  to  her  lover — a  little  nervous  fellow,  an  Englishman 
quick  in  speech  with  a  marked  accent,  a  round-faced  youth  with  a 
deep  soft  cleft  in  his  chin,  on  which  grew  two  separate  tufts  of 
yellow  hair.   His  eyes  were  wide  and  pale,  and  his  eyeteeth  prominent. 

He  dressed  in  tweeds,  walked  with  the  toes  in,  seemed  sorrowful 
when  not  talking,  laughed  a  great  deal  and  was  nearly  always  to  be 
found  in  the  cafe  about  four  of  an  afternoon. 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e     R  e  V  i  e  w  11 

When  he  spoke  it  was  quick  and  jerky.  He  had  spent  a  great  deal 
of  his  time  in  Europe,  especially  the  watering  places — and  had  man- 
aged to  get  himself  in  trouble  in  St.  Moritz,  it  was  said,  with  a  well- 
connected  family. 

He  liked  to  seem  a  little  eccentric  and  managed  it  simply  enough 
while  in  America.  He  wore  no  hat,  and  liked  to  be  found  reading 
the  London  Times  under  a  park  lamp  at  three  in  the  morning. 

Lydia  Passova  was  never  seen  with  him.  She  seldom  left  her 
shop,  however  she  was  always  pleased  when  he  wanted  to  go  any- 
where: "Go"  she  would  say,  kissing,  his  hand,  "And  when  you  are 
tired  come  back." 

Sometimes  she  would  make  him  cry.  Turning  around  she  would 
look  at  him  a  little  surprise,  with  lowered  lids,  and  a  light  tighten- 
ing of  the  mouth. 

"Yes"  he  would  say  "I  know  I'm  trivial — well  then  here  I  go, 
I  will  leave  you,  not  disturb  you  any  longer!"  and  darting  for  the 
door  he  would  somehow  end  by  weeping  with  his  head  buried  in  her 

She  would  say  "There,  there — why  are  you  so  nervous?" 

And  he  would  laugh  again:  "My  father  was  a  nervous  man,  and  my 
mother  was  high-strung,  and  as  for  me," — he  would  not  finish. 

Sometimes  he  would  talk  to  her  for  long  hours,  she  seldom  answer- 
ing, occupied  with  her  magnifying  glass  and  her  rings,  but  in  t'.ie 
end  she  was  sure  to  send  him  out  with ;  "That's  all  very  true  I  have 
no  doubt,  now  go  out  by  yourself  and  think  it  over" — and  he  would 
go,  with  something  like  relief,  embracing  her  large  hips  with  his  small 
strong  arms. 

They  had  knoivn  each  other  a  very  short  time,  three  or  four 
months.  He  had  gone  in  to  pawn  his  little  gold  ring,  he  was  always 
in  financial  straits,  though  his  mother  sent  him  five  pounds  a  week; 
and  examining  the  ring  Lydia  Passova  had  been  so  quiet,  inevitable, 
necessary  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  have  known  her  forever — "at 
some  time,"  as  he  said. 

Yet  they  had  never  grown  together.  They  remained  detached  and, 
on  her  part,  quiet,  preoccupied. 

He  never  knew  how  much  she  liked  him.    She  never  told  him,  if  he 

12  The     Little     Review 

asked  she  would  look  at  him  in  that  surprised  manner,  drawing  her 
mouth  together. 

In  the  beginning  he  had  asked  her  a  great  many  times,  clinging  to 
her,  and  she  moved  about  arranging  her  trays  with  a  slight  smile,  and 
m  the  end  lowered  her  hand  and  stroked  him  gently. 

He  immediately  became  excited.  "Let  us  dance,"  he  cried,  "I 
have  a  great  capacity  for  happiness." 

"Yes,  you  are  very  happy,"  she  said. 

"You  understand  don't  you?"  he  asked  abruptly. 


"That  my  tears  are  nothing,  have  no  significance,  they  are  just  a 
protective  fluid— when  I  see  anything  happening  that  is  about  to  effect 
my  happiness  I  cry,  that's  all." 

"Yes,"  Lydia  Passova  said,  "I  understand."  She  turned  around 
reaching  up  to  some  shelves,  and  over  her  shoulder  she  asked  "Does 
it  hurt?" 

"No,  it  only  frightens  me.   You  never  cry,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  never  cry." 

That  was  all.  He  never  knew  where  she  had  come  from,  what  her 
life  had  been,  if  she  had  or  had  not  been  married,  if  she  had  or  had 
not  known  lovers,  all  that  she  would  say  was  "Well,  you  arc  with  me, 
does  that  tell  you  nothing?"  and  he  had  to  answer  "No,  it  tells  me 

When  he  was  sitting  in  the  cafe  he  often  thought  to  himself 
"there's  a  great  woman"— and  he  was  a  little  puzzled  why  he  thought 
this  because  his  need  of  her  was  so  entirely  different  from  any  need 
he  seemed  to  remember  having  possessed  before. 

There  was  no  swagger  in  him  about  her,  the  swagger  he  had 
always  felt  for  his  conquests  with  women.  Yet  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  shame— he  was  neither  proud  nor  shy  about  Lydia  Passova, 
he  was  something  entirely  different.  He  could  not  have  said  him- 
self what  his  feeling  was — but  it  was  in  no  way  disturbing. 

People  had,  it  is  true,  begun  to  tease  him: 

"You're  a  devil  with  the  ladies." 

Where  this  had  made  him  proud,  now  it  made  him  uneasy. 

"Now,  there's  a  certain  Lydia  Passova  for  instance,  who  would 

The     Little     Review  13 

ever  have  thought — " 

Trembling,  furious  he  would  rise. 

"So,  you  do  feel — " 

He  would  walk  away,  stumbling  a  little  among  the  chairs,  puttinj 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  every  one  on  the  way  to  the  door. 

Yet  he  could  see,  that  in  her  time,  Lydia  Passova  had  been  a  "per- 
verse" woman — there  was  about  everything  she  did  an  economy  that 
must  once  have  been  a  very  sensitive  and  a  very  sensuous  impatience, 
and  because  of  this  everyone  who  saw  her  felt  a  personal  loss. 

Some  times  tormented,  he  would  come  running  to  her,  stopping 
abruptly,  putting  it  to  her  this  way : 

"Somebody  has  said  something  to  me." 

"When— where?" 

"Now,  in  the  cafe." 


"I  don't  know,  a  reproach — " 

She  would  say : 

"We  are  all,  unfortunately,  only  what  we  are." 

She  had  a  large  and  beautiful  angora  cat,  it  used  to  sit  in  the  tray 
of  amethj'sts  and  opals  and  stare  at  her  from  very  bright  cold  eyes. 
One  day  it  died,  and  calling  her  lover  to  her  she  said : 

"Take  her  out  and  bury  her."  And  when  he  had  buried  her  he 
came  back,  his  lips  twitching. 

"You  loved  that  cat — this  will  be  a  great  loss." 

"Have  I  a  memory?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Well,"  she  said  quietly,  fixing  her  magnifying  glass  firmly  in  her 
eye.    "We  have  looked  at  each  other,  that  is  enough." 

And  then  one  day  she  died. 

The  caretaker  of  the  furnace  came  to  him,  where  he  was  sipping  his 
liqueur  as  he  talked  to  his  cousin,  a  pretty  little  blond  girl,  who  had  a 
boring  and  comfortably  provincial  life,  and  who  was  beginning  to 

He  got  up,  trembling,  pale,  and  hurried  out. 

The  police  were  there,  and  said  they  thought  it  had  been  heart 

14  The     Little     Review 

She  lay  on  the  couch  in  the  inner  room.  She  was  fully  dressed,  even 
to  her  coral  ornaments;  her  shoes  were  neatly  tied — large  bows  of  a 
ribbed  silk. 

He  looked  down.  Her  small  eyes  were  slightly  open,  the  left,  that 
had  used  the  magnifying  glass,  was  slightly  wider  than  the  other. 
For  a  minute  she  seemed  quite  natural.  She  had  the  look  of  one  who 
is  about  to  say:  "Sit  beside  me." 

Then  he  felt  the  change.  It  was  in  the  peculiar  heaviness  of  the 
head — sensed  through  despair  and  not  touch.  The  high  breasts 
looked  very  still,  the  hands  were  half  closed,  a  little  helpless,  as  in 
life — hands  that  were  too  proud  to  "hold."  The  drawn-up  limb  ex- 
posed a  black  petticoat  and  a  yellow  stocking.  It  seemed  that  she  had 
become  hard — set,  as  in  a  mould, — that  she  rejected  everything  now, 
but  in  rejecting  had  bruised  him  with  a  last  terrible  pressure.  He 
moved  and  knelt  down.  He  shivered.  He  put  his  closed  hands  to 
his  eyes.     He  could  not  weep. 

She  was  an  old  woman,  he  could  see  that.  The  ceasing  of  that  one 
thing  that  she  could  still  have  for  anyone  made  it  simple  and  direct. 

Something  oppressed  him,  weighed  him  down,  bent  his  shoulders, 
closed  his  throat.  He  felt  as  one  feels  who  has  become  conscious  of 
passion  for  the  first  time,  in  the  presence  of  a  relative. 

He  flung  himself  on  his  face,  like  a  child. 

That  night,  however,  he  wept,  lying  in  bed,  his  knees  drawn  up. 


Chanson  on  Petit  Hypertrophique 

by  John    Rodker 

J'entends  ?non  coeur  qui  bat 
C'est  iianan  qui  inappelle. 

— Laforgue. 

LIMPID  efflorescence  of  light  gradually  pervaded  me. 
Nerve  endings  tingled  and  life  buzzed  continually  like 
bees  at  a  hive.  Very  remote,  systole  and  diastole  began 
quietly.  Very  remote  and  limpid,  and  drew  nearer 
until  it  burnt  and  quivered  in  jabs  of  red  and  green 
and  chocolate. 

The  rhythmic  beat  grew  systematic  and  while  before  I  had  feared 
lest  it  should  again  fade  vaguely  into  its  origins,  now  my  fear  dropped 
and  I  could  freely  eat  of  the  continuous  and  singing  buzz  of  life, 
rocking  me  endlessly  through  the  electric  blue-green  night. 

And  the  buds  of  my  joints  developed  each  its  separate  entity, 
swarmed  off  from  the  parent  so  that  I  throbbed  tiringly  with  my 
eccentric  regions  of  systole  and  diastole.  The  life  in  each  joint  grew 
more  potent.  My  existence  was  less  individual.  I  was  unable  to 
seize  knowledge  of  my  identity.  My  origins,  clear  and  obvious  to  me 
before,  lost  their  sharpness.  I  could  not  think  or  be  aware  of  myself. 
Too  much  stress  of  life  confused  and  amazed  me.  What  was  my 
mother  now?  Willingly  I  would  have  laid  hold  on  her  entrails  to 
tear,  had  she  wanted  to  thwart  me,  but  she  was  now  no  longer  con- 
cerned to  prevent  me.  Quietly  and,  to  me,  a  little  simply,  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  the  tool  of  my  life.  Then  I  would  hug  myself  with  joy 
in  the  hot  close  corner,  as  one  assured  of  certain  deliverance  and  who 
knows  there  is  the  world  for  him. 

Quiet  and  the  green  and  red  and  chocolate  gave  place  to  orange 
and  my  head  was  streaked  with  fine  nets  of  palpitating  crimson  and 
a  nimbus  of  fire  rose  from  it  quivering  endlessly.  And  like  cotton- 
wool it  remained  ever  between  myself  ?in4  th^  gtrain^d  ^^nd  despairing 
liejart  of  my  mother, 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  17 

I  was  conscious  of  ether,  an  oil  bubble  on  its  large  surface — of 
nebulae  tenuous  as  my  own  life — at  times  thinner  and  more  tenuous 
even,  so  that  I  shuddered  before  incommunicable  darkness.  Again  I 
withdrew  into  my  hot  wet  corner. 

And  Night  came  again  and  with  more  intensity.  I  shuddered  with 
foreboding  feeling  the  parent  life  ebb,  and  yearningly  and  undeniably 
I  clutched  fast  to  the  life-giving  entrails. 

So  for  a  long  time. 

My  mother  could  not  tell  what  to  do.  She  wanted  me,  but  hated 
the  thought  of  being  tied.  It  was  a  struggle  between  our  separate 
desires  for  life,  but  hers  was  a  losing  game,  for  she  only  half  wanted 
to  win.  And  the  great  cold  gave  place  to  great  heat  and  that  again 
to  great  cold  and  the  intricate  scarlet  threads  leapt  madly  through  me. 
In  anguish  I  could  have  said,  "Let  me  go,"  but  again  she  would  not 
and  through  endless  periods  of  time  held  me  fast  adding  clay  to  clay 
with  a  sure  yet  wavering  thumb. 

Primeval  darkness  enwrapped  me  and  the  smells  of  steaming  savan- 
nahs, the  green  pond  and  the  tiger's  musk. 

I  felt  nails  and  teeth  and  to  tear  with  them. 

Gradually  I  knew  less  of  my  mother.  My  prescience  wavered  and 
fled,  leaving  only  the  memory  that  it  had  been,  and  like  a  sultry  hermit 
I  wrapped  my  cloaks  more  tightly  about  me,  adding  cloak  to  cloak  to 
shut  out  the  irrelevant  world  of  my  mother  and  her  thoughts. 

At  certain  periods  the  cloaks  would  become  transparent  and  again 
there  would  be  remote  prickly  nebulae,  sticking  fine  needles  through 
me.  Quickly  I  buried  myself  within  my  cloaks  and  again  darkness 
and  the  urgent  buzz  of  life,  working  obscurely. 

And  quietly  and  more  quietly  life  seized  me.  I  was  aware  of  light, 
of  density  and  of  milk. 

Then  grey-green  electric  darkness  spluttered  with  blue  sparks 
between  pole  and  pole. 




Four  Horological  Poems 

by   Ma  Ic  olm    Co  w  ley 

IF  I  should  go  out  of  this  room  to  walk 
down  the  inevitable  street,  he  says, 
the  houses  would  reach  out  after  me 
their  long  tentacular  fingers  groping 
over  the  sidewalk  would  clutch  and  drag  me 
into  respectability  through  these  yawning  doorways 

(Forty  a  week  and  a  small  but  growing  savings  account,  a 

cat  and  two  babies,  count  them  two) 
and  yet  time  is  gnawing  at  the  self-assurance  of  these  houses 
time  is  wound 
like  a  worm  devouring  the  entrails  of  these  houses 

O  the  slow  combustion  of  plaster,  O  curled  yellow  wallpaper 
tickling  the  ceilings 
These  houses  will  tumble  like  rotten  fruit  to  the  ground. 


And  observe  if  you  please  the  action 

Of  time  upon  the  pedestrian  world. 

It  runs  lightly  over  the  faces  and  scrawls 

its  signature  in  twisted  lines  under  the  eyes, 

it  strips 

the  flesh  from  the  tendons  and  causes 

the  tendons  themselves  to  dissolve  into  their  constituent  carbon  and 

it  leaves  t 

nothing  but  a  structure  of  bones         two  hundred 

strutting  down  the  street  in  a  business  suit 

The    Little     Review  19 

two  hundred  female  bones  in  crepe  georgette  and  the  empty  faces  dyed 

with  Pompeian,  the  rouge  that  beautifies, 
and  yet  these  women 

wear  time  as  lightly  as  a  feather  boa  about  the  neck.     .     .     . 
Time  is  a  boa  about  the  neck  of  all  these  people 
constricting  slowly 
see  they  are  choking 

their  skin 
goes  dead  white 

under  the  rouge 
the  bones  rattle 

under  the  skin 
two  hundred  or  rather 

two  hundred  and  seven 


down  the  street 

in  a  feather 



There  is  nothing  at  all  that  lives  in  this  room  by  day 
and  dust  sifts  down  on  the  soiled  coverlet ;  dust 
filters  among  the  lace  curtains  making  queer 
amorphous  bars  across  the  avenue  of  escape  into  the  sunset, 
tread  softly ;  there  are  none  but  the  dead  remaining  here. 

But  at  night  something  wakens 

in  the  darkness  the  clock 

ticks  viciously  at  every  second 

throbbing  its  heart  out  against  a  tin  breast 

the  minutes  stalk 

pompously  across  the  field  of  consciousness 

an  hour  is  a  time  unreckoned 

The    Little    Review 

precise  and  categorical 

the  seconds  hammer  on  the  wall. 

At  their  touch  the  flesh  disintegrates 

the  mind  is  reduced  to  cerebrum  and  cerebellum 

dirty  grey  whorls  like  a  ball  of  cotton  waste 

like  a  bundle  of  soiled  linen,  like  clothes  cast  off  and  shoddy 

the  seconds  drip  from  a  great  height 

splashing  against  the  tips  of  my  nerves 

against  the  shell  of  my  insubstantial  body 

and  each  erodes  like  geologic  rain 

a  bit  of  flesh  a  bit  of  petrified  brain. 

- — I  shall  countenance  this  no  longer,  said  the  Philosopher  pick- 
ing up  the  clock  and  hurling  it  out  the  door,  and  as  he  spoke 
he  heard  it  rolling  down  the  circular  staircase  punctuating  his 
remarks  very  regularly  as  if  it  clung  to  rhythm  as  the  sole 
expression  of  life,  life,  I  must  have  it,  Life  said  the  Philosopher 

returned  to  his  accustomed  place 

the  room  was  grown  so  dark  he  could  not  see 

and  the  phosphorescence  of  his  lace  curtains  dissolved  leaving  him  out 
of  time  and  space 

whirled  in  an  eddy  of  eternity 

and  yet  his  heart  was  hammering  seventy  beats  to  the  minute 
time  was  throbbing  against  the  fine  skin  of  his  temples 
time  was  dripping  through  his  veins. 


These  skeletons  which  I  discuss,  said  the  philosopher, 

rise  at  seven  thirty 

the  rain  may  fiddle  down  outside,  or  the  sun  turn  the  window  shades 

into  vulgar  cloth  of  gold 
or  the  snow  fall  or  any  other  of  the  usual  phenomena  of  the  seasor\ 

but  they  rise 
d-X  seven  thirty  •  -^  ^   , 

T  he    Little    Review  21 

O  tin  alarm  clocks  detonating  simultaneously  in  hall  bed- 
rooms from  the  Battery  to  Yonkers  from  coast  to  coast  and 
agencies  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  the  world 
O  explosive  clocks  you  are  very  evidently  the  symbol  of  some- 

AND  the  quarrel  over  breakfast  at  eight  fifteen 

The  hurry  of  the  trip  to  the  subway  while  the  hands  of  the  clock  of 
the  tower  of  the  building  of  the  Metropolitan  Life  Insurance 
Company  of  the  greatest  city  of  the  greatest  country — God's 
country  you  know  it 

race  past  like  the  Bronx  express. 

All  morning  they  race  over  their  correspondence 

Yours  . 
of  the  9th  received  and  in  reply  we  beg  to  state  that 
all  afternoon  boredom  seeps  out  of  the  pigeonholes  of  their  desks 
to  pile  up  in  the  wastebaskets  until 
they  are  seized  by  a  tired  jubilation 
at  five  o'clock  sharp 

O  emotions  you  also  have  learned  to  punch  the  time  clock 
But  if 

at  any  time  the  alarm  clocks  failed 
simultaneously  to  function  from  coast  to  coast  and  in  the  agencies  i  i 

large  foreign  cities 
then  perhaps 
people  would  forget  the  following  emotional  processes  to  wit 

the  quarrel  over  breakfast 

the  hurry 

the  efficiency  the 

boredom  and 

the  tired  jubilation 
civilization  would  crumple  like  a  silk  hat  that  somebody  sat  on  and 

forget  to  get  up 
and   we   should    be   a   frightfully   long   time   straightening   out    the 


Black    Umbrellas 

by   Be?t    Hecht 

LITTLE  people  hurry  along  in  the  dark  street,  their  heads 
tucked  away  under  black  umbrellas  that  float  jerkily  like 
expiring  balloons.    Over  them  are  the  great  buildings  and 

the  rain. 

The  day  is  darkened  and  the  city  is  without  faces.  A  symmetrical 
stream  of  little  black  arcs  stretches  from  distance  to  foreground  as  if 
emerging  from  a  funnel.  The  little  people  drift  with  precision 
through  the  wash  of  the  rain,  bundled  together  by  the  great  buildings 
and  the  sacred  puerilities.  The  tops  of  their  umbrellas  run  like  waves, 
clinging  to  each  other,  eddying  blindly  at  the  crossings  and  careening 
on  again  with  precision. 

All  day  long  the  umbrellas  have  been  moving  their  black  and  end- 
less little  current  through  the  rain — a  monotone  of  precisions,  an  un- 
varying symbol  of  the  unvarying.  Beneath  them  the  dresses  of  women 
stretch  themselves  into  thin  triangles  and  the  trousers  of  men  reach  in 
unchanging  diagonals  for  the  pavement. 

The  little  people  clothed  themselves  in  the  morning  with  much  care 
and  there  was  a  stir  in  the  bedrooms  of  the  city,  a  standing  before 
mirrors  and  a  determination  to  have,  some  day,  more  captivating 
pieces  of  cloth  to  hide  themselves  in.  Now  the  little  triangles  and 
diagonals  make  a  swarm  of  patterns  identical  as  the  rain  and,  like  the 
rain,  the  little  people  are  pouring  out  of  3'esterday  into  tomorrow. 

Life  with  its  head  hidden  in  an  umbrella — little  people  with  bits 
of  black  cloth  giving  half  outline  to  the  impenetrable  cells  they  ex- 
change at  death  for  wooden  boxes — the  rain  drums  and  chatters  about 
them  and  the  day  like  a  dark  mirror  ignores  them.  The  great  build- 
ings, magnificent  grandfathers  of  the  little  black-arced  umbrellas, 
stand  dutifully  excluding  the  rain.  Electric  lights  already  spray  their 
circles  of  yellow  mist  upon  the  air.  The  stunted  little  sky  of  the 
city — the  corridor  of  trade  and  restaurant  signs  that  almost  brushes 
the  tops  of  the  black  umbrellas — is  prematurely  ablaze.     A  checker- 

TheLittleReview  23 

board  flight  of  windows  gleams  out  of  the  spatula-topped  skyscrapers. 
The  eyes  of  people  wandering  beyond  the  dripping  webs  of  umbrellas 
catch  sudden  glimpses  through  the  yellow  spaces  of  the  checkerboard 
of  little  puppet  worlds  inhabited  by  parts  of  furniture  and  unex- 
pected faces. 

Thus  the  city  looks  and  moves  under  an  umbrella  in  the  street.  I 
move  with  it,  an  old  dream  like  a  fawning  beggar  at  my  elbow.  It 
is  the  dream  of  the  urge  of  life.  It  follows  me  with  the  eyes  of  dead 
years.  I  have  already  given  to  this  dream  too  many  alms.  Yet  it 
fawns  for  more.  Sorrowful  dream  of  the  urge  of  life,  insatiable  men- 
dicant at  my  elbow,  its  lips  cajole  but  its  eyes,  deep  and  empty  as  a 
skull's,  stare  with  many  deaths.  We  walk  on  and  the  rain  carries  a 
whimpering  into  my  heart — the  whimpering  of  an  old  dream  asking 

I  invent  names  for  the  half  hidden  faces  and  give  meanings  to  them. 
Adjectives  are  an  antidote  for  the  companion  at  my  elbow  and  perhaps 
some  day,  wearied  of  listening  to  them,  he  will  abandon  me. 

There  is  a  kinship  among  the  black  umbrellas  bumbing  and  scrapin:;; 
at  each  other.  I  observe  this.  And  yet  beneath  them  there  are  only 
solitudes.  The  trousers  of  men  and  skirts  of  women  move  in  soli- 
tudes— precise  little  solitudes  as  identical  as  the  black  umbrellas  ana 
the  rain. 

Walking  before  me  under  an  umbrella  is  a  young  woman.  He; 
face  hidden  from  the  rain  is  that  of  a  rouged  nun,  as  are  the  faces  of 
the  young  women  of  the  city  who  mask  their  vacuity  with  roses. 
She  has  been  hurrying  but  now  she  moves  more  slowly.  I  invent  a 
n::me  for  her  and  a  meaning.  She  is  unaware  of  this  for  it  is  the 
common  fancy  of  little  people  swarming  in  streets  that  their  solitude", 
are  impenetrable.  Within  them  they  move,  brazenly  giving  them- 
selves to  the  outrageous  underworlds  of  thought. 

So  the  young  woman  walks  before  me  in  the  street,  locked  in  her 
little  depths,  surrounded  by  the  secret  names  and  images  of  her  yes- 
terdays and  tomorrows.  I  walk,  following  at  her  elbow  as  an  old 
dream  like  a  fawning  beggar  follows  at  mine.  For  it  has  occurred  to 
me  that  the  young  woman  is  peering  out  of  her  solitude.  She  has 
become  aware  of  the  halloo  of  the  rain  as  if  it  had  just  started. 

24  TheLittleReview 

It  is  obvious  that  she  has  been  moving,  aimlessly  preoccupied, 
through  the  downpour,  her  words  following  lazily  upon  the  pretty 
tracks  of  memory.  And  then  the  words  suddenly  jumbled  and  the 
pretty  tracks  became  a  circle  in  a  void.  It  is  this  that  makes  hurrying 
little  people  abruptly  slow  their  step  and  look  up  from  the  ground — 
as  if  to  recover  something. 

The  3"oung  woman,  deserted  by  her  solitude,  looked  quickly  about 
her  and  perceived  only  the  solitudes  of  others  which  though  identical 
are  always  meaningless.  I  observe  and  understand.  She  has  for  the 
moment  escaped  from  a  cell,  a  pleasing  enough  cell  of  remembered  and 
expected  destinations,  to  hnd  herself  free  in  a  world  of  cells.  Um- 
brellas run  by  her.  Legs  and  arms  thrust  themselves  senselessly  about 
her.  It  is  a  matter  of  little  enough  importance — a  young  woman 
staring  bewildered  by  the  rain.  Yet  I  remain  at  her  elbow.  There 
is  in  her  bewilderment  opportunity  for  the  employment  of  adjectives. 

Something  has  amazed  her.  In  her  unoccupied  brain  the  little 
world  darting  about  under  her  eyes  reflects  itself  as  an  unoccupied 
world;  an  unoccupied  world  stripped  of  destinations.  In  the  um- 
brellas alone  there  seems  a  startling  kinship  and  an  even  more  startling 
superiority  of  purpose.  They  perhaps  have  meanings,  but  the  little 
people  under  them  have  none.  Their  destinations  have  deserted  them 
and  they  are  moving  with  an  incongruous  hurry,  having  neither  be- 
ginnings nor  endings. 

For  moments  the  young  woman  stares.  I  do  not  know  her  thought 
but  I  know  that  a  lonesomeness  has  fastened  upon  her,  that  having 
lost  her  solitude  she  has  lost  the  oblivious  kinship  of  people  in  crowds. 
The  intricate  little  furniture  of  life,  her  minutae  of  preoccupation 
have  vanished  from  her  as  if  a  light  that  was  shining  on  them  had 
been  shut  off.  So  for  this  instant  during  which  I  have  been  observing 
her  she  is  free  of  the  world  and  there  is  in  her  the  terrible  premonition 
— for  the  world  beats  remorselessly  on  without  her.  The  black  um- 
brellas float  jerkily  like  expiring  balloons.  The  long  V-shaped  stretch 
of  people  crawls  with  continuous  patience  out  of  distance  into  distance. 
"Nowhere  nowhere,"  chatters  the  rain  and  in  the  mouth  of  the  young 
woman  life  lies  suddenly  tasteless.  An  old  dream  like  a  fawning 
beggar  is  at  her  elbow — the  dream  of  the  urge  of  life  that  but  a 

The    Little    Review  25 

moment  ago  was  the  reality  of  realities. 

We  walk  on  and  the  3'oung  woman  surrounded  by  an  unaccountable 
emptiness  listens  with  foreign  ears  to  the  rain  and  with  scrutinizing 
eyes  regards  the  fantastic  rim  of  her  umbrella.  The  contours  and 
noises  of  life  seem  not  like  the  contours  and  noises  of  life  but  like 
haphazard  lines  and  sounds  without  content.  I  employ  my  adjectives 
and  she,  lost  in  a  curious  despair,  feels  the  pain,  the  nostalgia  for  the 
unknown  slowly  distend  her  breasts  and  sink  thin-edged  into  the 
depths  of  her  body.  As  she  tries  to  think  little  fears  burst  excitedly 
in  warm  clouds  in  her  throat ;  keen  mists  lacerate  and  darken  the  little 
channels  of  her  senses.  Then  words  form  themselves  and  she  is 

"I  want  something.     Something." 

The  rain  drums  and  chatters  about  us.  The  tides  of  umbrellas 
careen  with  precision  along  the  base  of  the  great  buildings  and  the 
lights  of  the  city,  like  bits  of  vivid  pasteboard,  drift  over  us  in  the 
downpour.  The  echo  of  the  cry  that  rises  from  all  endings  burns  in 
my  heart.  Cry  of  the  dead,  passionless  fever  of  the  emptied  senses 
reaching  for  life  beyond  contours,  I  listen  to  the  echo  of  its  murmur 
in  a  city  street  and  stare  into  a  tangle  of  trousers  and  skirts.  Life  is  a 
crafty  beggar  masking  its  dead  eyes  with  new  darknesses. 

Despair  with  thin  fingers  caresses  the  heart  of  the  young  woman 
and  her  senses  sweep  furtively  the  horizon  of  her  little  world  and  she 
searches  in  vain  for  the  face  of  her  longing.  "Nowhere,  nowhere," 
chatters  the  rain.  The  great  buildings  and  the  little  black  umbrellas 
say  a  nowhere  and  the  long  crowd  in  the  street — the  long  crowd  in 
the  street  runs  away. 

I  know  the  thought  of  the  young  woman.  It  has  hurried  hopefully 
to  the  man  from  whose  arms  she  has  come.  She  images  again  the 
delicious,  thrilling  hour  of  his  talk  and  caresses.  But  as  she  thinks  of 
them  quickly,  frightenedly,  they  become  a  part  of  the  puppet  worlds 
that  lie  within  lights  shining  out  of  building  windows. 

We  walk  on  and  the  young  woman  stares  into  the  dark  mirror  of 
the  rain  whose  odours  and  lines  give  fugitive  form  to  the  mystery  of 
space.  Under  her  umbrella  the  rouge  of  her  cheeks  like  a  mask  slips 
away  and  her  face  is  white.     There  is  a  whiteness  in  her  heart,  the 

26  TheLittleReview 

gathering  fear  of  one  who  waits  for  unexpected  things.  The  echo  of 
the  words  of  longing  swims  sickeningly  in  her  body.  From  the  un- 
derworld of  her  thought  demoniac  impulses  raise  a  dizzying  babble. 
Inanimate  they  burst  into  wild  flight  and  yet  leave  her  motionless. 
The  words  of  her  longing  have  gone  into  her  fingers  and  I  watched 
her  closed  hand  shiver;  into  her  legs  that  plunge  with  violence  beneath 
her  skirt.  She  feels  them  almost  coming  to  life  in  her  breasts.  So 
she  is  walking  swiftly  again,  flying  from  an  emptiness. 

We  walk  on  until  the  block  is  ended  and  the  young  woman  pauses 
to  smile  expectantly  into  a  shop  window.  She  breathes  deeply  and 
moves  her  umbrella  aside  so  that  the  rain  may  wet  her  face.  I  know 
of  what  she  is  thinking.  There  is  a  curious  sense  of  guilt — the  con- 
fused shame  of  little  people  who  turn  their  backs  for  a  moment  upon 
life  as  upon  a  beggar,  and  for  a  moment  give  words  to  the  cry  that 
rises  from  all  endings. 

The  young  woman  penitent  and  again  alive  whispers  to  herself  it 
was  the  man  from  whose  arms  she  has  come.  For  there  was  no  other 
something.  Is  not  love  one  of  the  finalities?  So  her  thoughts  are 
again  with  him.  Again  he  talks  and  caresses  and  there  comes  to  her 
the  glow,  the  keen  yearning  for  satiety — tor  some  completion — that 
she  calls  by  the  name  of  love. 

There  was  nothing  else  she  wanted.  The  rain  made  her  dizzy. 
And  yet  the  memory  of  the  terror  and  elation  that  for  an  instant 
beneath  the  black  umbrellas  created  a  vacuum  of  her  solitude  clings 
to  her  like  the  ghost  of  a  mysterious  infidelity. 

Away  from  the  shop  and  it  too  is  gone.  The  little  black-arced 
umbrellas  swarm  about  us  as  if  trying  to  fly  over  each  other.  Under 
them  are  the  faces  of  people  safely  and  intelligently  locked  in  little 
solitudes.  The  rain  drums  and  chatters  about  them,  dropping  walls 
from  their  umbrellas  and  burying  them  deeper  in  their  secret  destina- 
tions. To  the  young  woman  the  thing  in  the  street  is  again  explic- 
able. It  requires  neither  words  nor  thought.  It  is  rain  and  people, 
buildings  and  umbrellas,  lights  and  a  shining  pavement,  and  out  of  it 
rises  the  swift  urge  of  life. 

We  walk  on  and  her  hand  touches  mine.  Her  fingers  close  prettily 
over  it.    We  talk  and  her  words  are  eager.    She  has  been  thinking  of 

T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Re  view  27 

me  she  says  and  her  eyes  lie  avidly.  She  struggles  against  a  confidence, 
wondering  what  there  is  to  tell.  It  blurts  forth  then  adroitly  in  a 
laugh,  a  laugh  that  belongs  to  the  orchestra  of  sweet  sounds. 

I  am  so  happy,  she  says.  I  am  so  happy.  The  joy  of  return  has 
made  her  buoyant,  return  into  her  solitude  with  its  familiar  little  fur- 
niture among  which  I  stand  a  decoration  of  the  moment.  She  has 
forgotten  the  beggar  who  fawned  in  the  rain  at  her  elbow  and  things 
are  explicable,  things  are  clear,  and  have  names  and  swing  vividly 
through  the  dark  day. 

We  walk  on,  hands  together,  and  an  old  dream  whimpers  in  my 

In  the  Country 

by   Robert   Reiss 

KID  in  the  white  grass 
Fastened  as  a  twig  of  moon 
Onto  the  night  that  holds  a  glass 
Eye  ever  before  your  eyes  of  calculation, 
Remove  your  finger  from  the  trees 
And  betray  a  slight  sentiment; 
The  bus-top  wind  perhaps  agrees 

I  am  devoid  of  emulation. 

In  the  city  your  optical  surprise 

Covers  with  its  blackness  all  my  skies, 

But  here  among  the  sassafras 

You  cannot  lay  fingers  on  green  grass. 



by   Rise  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 

Holy   Skirts 

Thought  about  holy  skirts — to  tune  of  "Wheels  are  growing  on 
rosebushes."  Beneath  immovable — carved  skirt  of  forbidding  sexless- 
ness — over  pavement  shoving — gliding — nuns  have  wheels. 

Undisputedly !  since — beneath  skirts — they  are  not  human!  Kept 
carefully  empty  cars — running  over  religious  track — local — express 
— according  to  velocity  of  holiness  through  pious  steam — up  to 
heaven ! 

What  for — 

what  do  they  unload  there — 

ivhy  do  they  runf 

Senseless  wicked  expense  on  earth's  provisions — pious  idleness — 
all  idleness  unless  idleness  before  action — idleness  of  youth! 

Start  action  upstairs — he? 

How  able  do  that — all  of  sudden — when  on  earth — machinery  in- 
suffient —  weak — unable  to  carry — virtuous? 
Virtue:  staganation. 
Staganation  :  absent  contents — lifeblood — courage — action!   action-n! 

Why  here  ? 
What  here  for — ? 

To  good?  ah — !?  hurry — speed  up — run  amuck — jump — beat  it! 
farewell !  f are-thee-well — good-bye !   bye ! 
ah — bye-ye-ye ! 

IV e — of  this  earth — like  this  earth! 

make  heaven  here — 

take  steps  here — 

to  possess  bearing  hereafter — 


The    Little    Review  29 

That  we  know  how  to  enter: 

reception  room — drawing  room — 

banquet  hall  of : 

abyssmal  serious  jester 

whimsical  serene  power/ 

Poke  ribs : 

old  son  of  gun — 

old  acquaintance! 

Kiss :  knees — toes ! 

Home — ! 

Our  home! 

We  are  home ! 

After : 

smiling  grim  battle — 

laughter — excitement — 

swordplay — 

sweat — 

blood ! 

After  accomplishing — 
what  sent  for  to  accomplish. 
Children  of  His  loin — 
Power  of  power. 

Marie   Ida    Seqiie?ice 

{Gesture   of  soul — action-: architecture 
— evolutionary) 


Mine    flaunting   dress — mine    copper    hair — 
Thou — purple — dark —  — 
Slate  iris —  forehead  wide. 

Mine  lips — as  shaped  and  chiselled   after  thine — • 
The   nose  is  not — mine   nose   is   aquiline- 
like  tower — thine  is  short, 

30  The    Little    Review 

Thine   hands — so   imminently   lovely — 
Frail — faintly  dimpled — tapery  fingertips — 
To  worship — they  are  not  the  hands  of  me — 
Nor  chaste  as  thine  ponder  mine  lips. 

Mine  scarlet  heart — mine  slate-green  eye — 

copper-sprayed   star — 

Are  thine — profound — ! 

— Learned  mine  eyes  what  never  thine  eyes  lit — 

Desire  incarnate — erected  fit 

Cradle  for  thine  soul. 

Naj' — fundamentally   I   am   thine   root — 
Gyrating  dizzying  and  high 
Upon  that  bloodcrest — mating  a  galoot 
Of  steel  and   flame — making  thee  die. 


Prince  Elect 

And  well — mine  mother — do  we  hate — ! 
We  ourselves — to  ourselves — are  costly — 
Priceless — as   Tormalinde   on   the   gate — 
— of  death. 

I — as  thou  before — 

am  prince  elect  to  that  estate — 

that  shone  thine  teeth  as  shells  along  the  shore- 

— of  life. 

Aie — proud  malignant  corse! 

i    c/5 










Margaret    Anderson 

Foreign   Editors: 

John  Rodker  Jules  Romains 

Advisory    Board 


''The    Public    Taste' 
by   Mary   Widney 

I  HAVE  been  puzzled  by  that  explanatory  "making  no  compromise 
with  the  public  taste"  which  appears  relentlessly  upon  the  Little 
Review  covers.  It  seems  singularly  obtuse  for  so  perspicacious  a 
magazine.  The  whole  spirit  of  the  work  between  its  covers  belies  the 
obvious  interpretation:  that  you  are  capitalizing  your  agnosticism — 
not  too  delicately  angling  for  the  dilettante  iconoclast.  If  you  are 
sincerely  regardless  of  the  pubjic  taste  why  be  so  blatant  about  it? 
A  true  contempt  is  impersonal — ^a  true  disregard  cannot  be  cognizant 
of  the  thing  disregarded.     The  small  boy  whistling  in  the  grave 

The     Little     Review  33 

yard — and  the  Little  Review  slapping  the  face  of  public  taste.  Some, 
way  it  lacks  dignity,  and,  what  is  more  serious,  casts  aspersions  on 
the  worthiness  of  the  movement  it  espouses.  I  may  be  misunder- 
standing grossly,  but  as  I  have  said,  I  am  puzzled.  Won't  you 
explain  ? 

[I  should  like  to  write  you  a  long  heart-felt  letter  about  that  slogan. 
It  has  been  one  of  my  compromises  for  the  past  three  years.  It  came 
to  us,  among  many  other  precious  things,   from  Ezra  Pound. 

Taste  in  Art  is  a  thing  that  could  never  get  my  attention ;  and  so, 
anything  as  casual  as  that  taste  made  by  the  newspapers,  lectures 
bureaus,  the  fashion-art  magazines,  and  Mr.  Mencken  could  never 
lead  me  to  endorse  the  slogan.  It  does  help,  as  colour,  to  balance  the 
heavy  letters  at  the  top,  and  it  does  undoubtedly  save  many  people 
their  quarters. 

I  believe  in  peace  and  silence  for  and  from  the  "masses" — a  happy 
undisturbed  people.  I  don't  know  how  this  can  be  brought  about  en- 
tirely. I  try  not  to  go  very  far  into  what  the  suffragists  must  be 
feeling  when  they  contemplate  what  public  taste  has  chosen  as  pre- 
sidential candidates. — ;7z.] 

^'D ado"  a77d  Rise  von  Freytag 
von  Loringhoven 
by    yohn   Rodker 

PARIS  has  had  Dada  for  five  3^ears,  and  we  have  had  Else  von 
Freytag-Loringhoven  for  quite  two  years.  But  great  minds 
think  alike  and  great  natural  truths  force  themselves  into  cog- 
nition at  vastly  separated  spots.  In  Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 
Paris  is  mystically  united  New  York. 

*Our  copies  of  Dada  being  temporarily  lost,  and  Mr.  Rodker's  ms. 
being  h-ndwritten  and  impossible  to  read,  we  print  the  above  with  apologies 
for   any   misquotations. 

34  T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  etv 

This  makes  clear  the  poem  "Narin  Tzarissamanilj."  The  president 
of  Dada  (there  are  one  or  two  but  it  costs  3  frs.)  goes  by  the  name 
of  Tristan  Tzara.  His  photograph  is  intense  enough  to  please  any 
one.  It  is  possible  that  Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven  is  the  first 
Dadaiste  in  New  York  and  that  the  Little  Review  has  discovered  her. 

Let  me  quote  some  Dada  poems.     The  resemblance  is  striking: 
La  fibre  s'etiflamme  et  les  pyr amides 

(tres  vite) 

aeaeaeaeaea  eda     s'eclarent     les  dignes  verticales 
ledah  ega     les  torpilleurs  aux  fontaines 
ne  touchez  pas      sous  I'orage  extrarose      mourir  mourir 
les  ancres       les  soeurs  grises  et  les  philosophes  sur 
I'ultrablantique  les   coupoles 

aegoov         aaa         crepuscule 
derriere  le  pastel  le  perforatrices  les  perforatrices 
hhhaa       il  a  signe  le  quadruple 
bregan  aeaeaeaeaeaaaa. 

T.  Evola. 

Metals  form  part  of  Mme.  Loringhoven's  virulent  compost.  Hear 
the  Dada's : 

Tourmentes  par  le  desir  de  voir  leur  statue  a 
Paris,    place    de    I'Etoile,    les    presidents    et    pro- 

prietaires  du  mouvement  Dada  pissent  du  bronze. 
It's  a  pity  that  such  impetuosity  should  result  only  in: 

Begue  Ventriloque 

ok    okokok 

Dans  sa  vessie  est  remonte  apres  une  descente  en 

Le  cerveau  de  I'aimee 
CEuf  a  la  coque  de  ses  reves  cuits 
Beurre  Soufre  Platone 
Et  puis  rien 
Et  alors.  .  . 

Georges  Ribemofit-Dessaignet, 

r^       I  \ 

The    Little    Review  35 


Zim  ba  da  bruin  soyais  oracles 

II  est  un  nez  ailette  tribe  de  Crooks 

Zinc   autel   eclair   tartines   negres 

Ibidem  sur  le  ventre  en  fleurs 

de  toutes  crues  sauve  la  Certa  ■    ' 

En  carrousel  muet  honore  Dieu  le  Pere. 

Dure-mere  cachotterie  .    | 

Aux  sourcils  f aits  a  I'encore  souf re  ' 

Dompte  la  vergue  ventriloque  '^' 

Andre  Gide  a  la  pituite. 

Paul  Der?nee. 

We  seem  to  remember  Marinetti  at  this  game.  Dada  is  different. 
It  says  it  won't  take  seriously  (beyond  coin,  I  mean)  its  lack  of 
seriousness.  As  I  said  before,  they  print  each  other's  photographs ; 
all  appear  young  men  and  women  of  blameless  lives.  .  .  and  the 
most  earnest  intentions.  Mme.  Loringhoven  is  I  feel  sure  to  be 
equally  congratulated.  For  my  taste  I  find  her  poems  a  little  too 
sweet  and  sentimental,  but  every  one  to  his  taste.  In  her  search  for 
beauty  she  resembles  Tristan  Tzara  whom  we  have  already  men- 
tioned.    This  poem  is  without  blague: 

La  queue  du  diable  est  une  bicyclette 

la  morsure  equatoriale  dans  le  roc  bleu 

accable  la  nuit  senteur  intime  de  berceaux  amoureux 

la  fleur  est  un  reverbere  poupee  ecoute  le  mercure 

qui  monte 

qui  monte  le  moulin  a  vent  accroche  au  viaduc 

avant-hier  n'est  pas  la  ceramique  des  chrysanthemes 
qui  tourne  la  tete  et  le  froid 

I'heure  a  sonne  dans  ta  bouche 

encore  un  ange   brise  qui   tombe  comme  un  ex- 
crement de  vantour  i 

etend  I'accolade  sur  le  desert  fane 

lambeaux  d'oreilles  songees  lepre  fer. 

Tristan  Tzara. 

36  T  h  e    L  it  1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w 

The  Little  Review  might  adopt  certain  of  Dada's  "artichauts"  for 
its  correspondents.  "Qu'est  ce  qu'est  beau?  Qu'est  ce  que  c'est  laid? 
Qu'est  que  c'est  grand,  fort,  faible?  Qu'est  ce  que  c'est  Car- 
pentier,  Renan,  Foch  ?  Connais-pas.  Qu'est  ce  que  c'est  moi  1* 
Connais  pas,  connais  pas. 
or  from  this  Manisfeste  Dada : 

Dada,  lui,  ne  vent  rien,  rien,  il  faut  quelque  chose 
par  que  le  public  dise:  "nous  ne  comprenous  rein, 
rien,  rien.  .  .  Les  Dadaistes  ne  sout  rien,  rien, 
rien,  bien  certainment  ils  n'arriverons  a  rien, 
rien,  rien. 

Francis  Picabia 
{qui  ne  sait  rien,  rien,  rien). 
This  movement  should  capture  America  like  a  prairie  fire.     From 
Kreymborg  to  Lindsay  the  whole  modern  movement  is  photographed 
either  prototype  or  the  other  thing. 

They   don't   seem   to   have   got   Joyce,    though    Pound   contributes 
a  note  to  the  effect  that 

Dada  No.  1.  Quelques  jeunes  hommes  intelligents 
stranded  in  Zurich  desire  correspondence  with 
other  unfortunates  similarly  situated — other  god- 
forsaken corners  of  the  earth. 

Dada  Bulletin  5  Feb.  Ils  ont  echappe.  They 
have  got  to  Paris.  La  Bombe!  La  zut! — 
excellsior!    ! 

Note  from  an  a?^ticle  by  May  Si?7clair 
171  the  ^'English  Review'' 

IF  the  Little  Rcviezv  had  never  printed  anything  but  what  came  to 
it  through  its  foreign  editor  it  might  by  this  time  have  ranked  as 
an  important  international  concern  ;  unfortunately  it  printed  many 
things  for  which  Mr.  Pound  was  not  responsible,  and  when  it  tres- 
passed its  iniquities  were  laid  on  him.  Besides  he  gave  opportunities. 
His  critical  manner  wa§  deceptive.     When  the  Little  Review  an- 

The    Little    Review  37 

nounced  its  Henry  James  number,  with  an  article  by  Ezra  Pound, 
some  of  us  had  visions  of  an  irresponsible  and  agile  animal  shinning 
up  a  monument  to  hang  by  his  feet  from  the  top. 

"What  actually  happened? 

"I  do  not  know  any  book  yet  written  on  Henry  James  of  more  solid 
value  than  Mr.  Pound's  "Brief  Note"  in  the  Little  Review." 

[My  experience  and  spiritualistic  beliefs  in  international  magazines 
of  art  and  letters  make  me  long  for  May  Sinclair's  advice  both  as 
an  efficiency  expert  and  as   a  fortune-teller. 

Aside  from  "Ulysses"  all  of  the  work  sent  to  us  by  Pound  could 
have  gone  into  eight  or  ten  numbers  of  the  Little  Review.  If  this 
could  have  captured  the  international  art  consciousness  we  are  over- 
come with  grief  that  we  interfered,  and  frustrated  what  wasn't 
exactly  our  aim:  to  become  an  "international  concern."  I  do  hold 
with  Miss  Sinclair  that  if  any  one  could  have  made  us  an  international 
concern  it  could  only  have  been  some  one  as  American  as  Pound  with 
his  same  interest  in  and  appreciation  of  foreign  work. 

We  are  here  to  trespass — we  will  stand  by  our  own  iniquities.  We 
have  not  trespassed  in  thinking  that  all  the  international  writers  are 
not  living  in  Europe.— j//.] 

^^The    Modest   Woman 

by  Else  von  Freytag-Lortnghoven 

Artists  are  aristocrats. 

Artists  who  call  themselves  artists — not  aristocrats — are  plain  work- 
ing people,  mixing  up  art  with  craft,  in  vulgar  untrained  brain. 

Who  wants  us  to  hide  our  joys   (Joyce?) 

If  I  can  eat  I  can  eliminate — it  is  logic — it  is  why  I  eat!  Mj' 
machinery  is  built  that  way.  Yours  also — though  you  do  not  like  to 
think  of — mention  it — because  you  are  not  aristocrat. 

Your  skirts  are  too  long — out  of  "modesty,"  not  decoration — when 
you  lift  them  you  do  not  do  it  elegantly — proudly. 

Why  should  I — proud  engineer — be  ashamed  of  my  machinery — 
part  of  it  ? 

38  The    Little    Review 

Is  there  any  engineer  of  steel  machinery  who  is?  unless  he  runs 
ramshackle  one? 

The  stronger  she  works — the  prouder  he  is ! 

Has  he  no  right  to  talk  shop?  He,  not  you!  for  you  are  no  en- 
gineer! Helpless  victim — pulled  over  gravel — dust — by  that  inde- 
cent machine — j^our  body — over  life's  glorious  wilderness — not  seeing 
landscape !  Joyce  is  engineer !  one  of  boldest — most  adventurous — 
globetrotter — !  to  talk  shop  is  his  sacred  business — we  want  him  to 
— to  love  engine  that  carries  him  through  flashing  glades  to  his  grave 
— his  glorious  estate. 

If  I  can  write — talk — about  dinner — pleasure  of  my  palate — as 
artist  or  as  aristocrat — with  my  ease  of  manner — can  afford  also  to 
mention  my  ecstasies  in  toilet  room ! 

If  you  can  not — you  are  invited  to  silence — by  all  means! 

If  your  ears  are  too  vulgar — put  white  cotton  into — in  tufts — 
bunches!  fitting  decoration!  You  did  that — already — but  why  have 
you  to  show  it  to  the  world  at  large?  afflicted  people  should  stay 
home — ^with  family — friends.  You  are  immodest — because  you  are 
not  healthy. 

Toilets  are  made  for  swift  cleanliness — not  modesty ! 

America's  comfort: — sanitation — outside  machinery — has  made 
American  forget  own  machinery — body!  He  thinks  of  himself  less 
than  of  what  should  be  his  servant — steel  machinery. 

He  has  mixed  things!  For:  he  has  no  poise — no  tradition.  Par- 
venu— ashamed  of  his  hide — as  he  well  might. 

Slips  behind  smoothness — smugness — sanitation — cleanliness. 

Ah !  now  he  is  "personality" — dressed  up — sorry — sanitary  lout — 
just  from  barber — smelling  from  barber. 

That  is  American!  it  is  truly  disgusting  to  imagine  him  in  any 
"physical  functions" — eating  not  excluded. 

Eats  stupidly  also. 

Has  reason  to  hide — feels  that — and  : — because  newly  rich — in  vast 
acquisition — feels  also  he  has  something  to  say  to  everything — every- 
body— as  did  in  war — to  ridicule. 

Smart  aleck — countrylout — in  Sunday  attire — strutting! 

Yawning — all  teeth — into  space — sipping  his  coffee  with  thunder 

The    Little    Review  39 

noise — elbow  on  table — little  finger  outspread  stiffly — he  knows  how 
to  behave  in  society ! 

Why — America — can  you  not  be  modest?  stay  back — attentive — 
as  wellbred  child?     You  have  so  much  to  learn — just  out  of  bushes! 

But — you  are  no  wellbred  child — you  are  noisy — nosey — bad-man- 
nered— assumptive. 

In  my  opinion — I  have  sharp  eyes — you  are  no  child  of  nature — 
you  are  changeling! 

You  forget,  madame — that  we  are  the  masters — go  by  our  rules. 

Goethe  was  grandly  obscene — what  do  you  know  about  it?  Flau- 
bert— Swift — Rabelais— Arabian  Nights — Bible  if  you  please!  only 
difference — Bible  is  without  humour — great  stupidity!  So:  how 
dare  you  strut — step  out — show  yourself  with  your  cotton-tuft  in  ear  ? 

In  Europe — when  inferiors  do  not  understand  superiors — they  re- 
tire modestly — mayhap  baffled — but  in  good  manner.  By  that  fact 
— that  they  do  not  understand — they  know  their  place.  They  are 
not  invited — of  class  inferior — the  dance  is  not  theirs. 

They  can  not  judge — for:  they  lack  real  manners— education- - 

If  they  are  desirous  of  judging — sometime — they  must  think — 
study — rise — slowly!  So  society  is  made — in  Europe — slowly — !  so: 
culture — so :  aristocratic  public. 

In  such  public — we  dance. 

That  attitude  of  the  learner — the  inferior — you  should  feel  in  re 
gard  to  James  Joyce. 

That  you  do  not — shows  you  have  less  inherent  culture  than  Euro- 
pean washer-lady. 

Here — madame — every  bank  clerk  meddles. 

Ancient  Romans  had  proverb — one  of  few  great  principals  of 
world-structure — culture:  Quod  licit  Jovi,  nun  licit  Bovi. 

To  show  hidden  beauty  of  things — there  are  no  limitations!  Only 
artist  can  do  that — that  is  his  holy  office.  Stronger — braver  he  is — 
more  he  will  explore  into  depths. 

His  eye — ear — finger — nose — tongue — are  as  keen  as  yours  dull. 

Without  him — without  his  help — you  would  become  less  than  dog 
— cow — worm. 

40  TheLittleReview 

To  them  nature  is  art — we  live  in  civilization!  You  would  lose 
all  sense  of  life — disintegrate  into  maniacs  of  wilderness — not  into 
anmals — for:  animals  are  perfect — Nature  to  them — civilization  to  us. 

Do  not  believe  genius  is  without  error.  Ah — nay — but:  without 
sentimentality — pity — with  relentless  purpose — conviction — patience 
— time. 

Do  not  eat  the  Little  Review. 

Therein  all  strong  angels  are ! 

Already  high  scientist  not  any  more  knows  how  to  be  "ashamed" — 
silent — about  anything. 

You  can  suffer  that — can  you  not? 

If  not — you  are  dunce — even  in  America — should  keep  tongue. 

What  scientist  can  say  only  in  impersonal  detached  dignified  quiet- 
ness— servant  of  God — genius  can  say — does — any  way  he  first  hap- 
pens to  feel — he  is  God's  messenger — in  him   God   incarnate. 

I  have  not  read  "Ulysses."  As  story  it  seems  impossible — to  James 
Joyce's  style  I  am  not  yet  quite  developed  enough — makes  me  diffi- 
culty— too  intent  on  my  own  creation — no  time  now. 

Sometime  I  will  read  him — have  no  doubt — time  of  screams — de- 
lights— dances — soul  and  body — as  with  Shakespeare. 

For  snatches  I  have  had  show  me  it  is  more  worth  while  than 
many  a  smooth  coherent  story  by  author  or  real  genuine  prominence. 

The  way  he  slings  "obscenities" — handles  them — never  forced — 
never  obscene — vulgar!  (thank  Europe  for  such  people — world  will 
advance. ) 

Shows  him  one  of  highest  intellects — with  creative  power  abundant 
— soaring ! 

In  fact — his  obscenities — until  now — are  only  thing  I  could  taste 
— enjoy — with  abandon — his  blasphemies.  Pure  soul  of  child — wis- 
dom of  sage — genius. 

Such  one  you  dare  approach — little  runt? 

Whatever  made  you  read  him — Little  Review — anyway? 

Back  to  my  astonishment! 

You  see  how  ridiculous  you  are? 

Well — if  not — others  will. 

That  is  why  I  wrote  this — ! 









by    yames    yoyce 

Episode ^  XIII   [Continued) 

CANON  O'HANLON  put  the  blessed  sacrament  back 
into  the  tabernacle  and  the  choir  sang  Laudate  Dominum 
omnes  gentes  and  then  he  locked  the  tabernacle  door  be- 
cause the  benediction  was  over  and  Father  Conroy 
handed  him  his  hat  to  put  on  and  Edy  asked  was  she 
coming  but  Jacky  Caffrey  called  out: 
— O,  look,  Cissy! 

And  they  all  looked  was  it  sheet  lightning  but  Tommy  saw  it  too 
over  the  trees  beside  the  church,  blue  and  then  green  and  purple. 
— It's  fireworks,  Cissy  Caffrey  said. 

And  they  ail  ran  down  the  strand  to  see  over  the  houses  and  the 
church,  helterskelter,  Edy  with  the  pushcar  with  baby  Boardman  in 
it  and  Cissy  holding  Tommy  and  Jacky  by  the  hand  so  they  wouldn't 
fall  running. 
— Come  on,  Gerty,  Cissy  called.   It's  the  bazaar  fireworks. 

But  Gerty  was  adamant.  She  had  no  intention  of  being  at  their 
beck  and  call.  If  they  could  run  like  rossies  she  could  sit  so  she 
said  she  could  see  from  where  she  was.  The  eyes  that  were  fastened 
upon  her  set  her  pulses  tingling.  She  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
meeting  his  glance,  and  a  light  broke  in  upon  her.  Whitehot  passion 
was  in  that  face,  passion  silent  as  the  grave,  and  it  had  made  her  his. 
At  last  they  were  left  alone  without  the  others  to  pry  and  pass  remarks, 
and  she  knew  he  could  be  trusted  to  the  death,  steadfast,  a  man  of 
honour  to  his  fingertips.  She  leaned  back  far  to  look  up  where  the 
fireworks  were  and  she  caught  her  knee  in  her  hands  so  as  not  to 
fall  back  looking  up  and  there  was  no  one  to  see  only  him  and  her 
when  she  revealed  all  her  graceful  beautifully  shaped  legs  like  that, 
supply  soft  and  delicately  rounded,  and  she  seemed  to  hear  the  pant- 
ing of  his  heart  his  hoarse  breathing,  because  she  knew  about  the 

T  h  e    L  it  1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  43 

passion  of  men  like  that,  hotblooded,  because  Bertha  Supple  told  her 
once  in  secret  about  the  gentleman  lodger  that  was  staying  with  them 
out  of  the  record  office  that  had  pictures  cut  out  of  papers  of  those 
skirtdancers  and  she  said  he  used  to  do  something  not  very  nice  that 
you  could  imagine  sometimes  in  the  bed.  But  this  was  different  from 
a  thing  like  that  because  there  was  all  the  difference  because  she 
could  almost  feel  him  draw  her  face  to  his  and  the  first  quick  hot 
touch  of  his  handsome  lips.  Besides  there  was  absolution  so  long  as 
you  didn't  do  the  other  thing  before  being  married  and  there  ought 
to  be  woman  priests  that  would  understand  without  telling  out 
and  Cissy  Calfrey  too  sometimes  had  that  dreamy  kind  of  dreamy 
look  in  her  eyes  so  that  she  too,  my  dear,  and  besides  it  was  on 
account  of  that  other  thing  coming  on  the  way  it  did. 

And  Jacky  Caffrey  shouted  to  look,  there  was  another  and  she  leaned 
back  and  the  garters  were  blue  to  match  on  account  of  the  transparent 
and  they  all  saw  it  and  shouted  to  look,  look  there  it  was  and  she 
leaned  back  ever  so  far  to  see  the  fireworks  and  something  queer 
was  flying  about  through  the  air,  a  soft  thing  to  and  fro,  dark.  And 
she  saw  a  long  Roman  candle  going  up  over  the  trees  up,  up,  and 
they  were  all  breathless  with  excitement  as  it  went  higher  and  higher 
and  she  had  to  lean  back  more  and  more  to  look  up  after  it,  high, 
high,  almost  out  of  sight,  and  her  face  was  suffused  with  a  divine,  an 
entrancing  blush  from  straining  back  and  he  could  see  her  other 
things  too,  nainsook  knickers,  four  and  eleven,  on  account  of  being 
white  and  she  let  him  and  she  saw  that  he  saw  and  the  it  went  so 
high  it  went  out  of  sight  a  moment  and  she  was  trembling  in  every 
limb  from  being  bent  so  far  back  that  he  could  see  high  up  above  her 
knee  where  no-one  ever  and  she  wasn't  ashamed  and  he  wasn't  either 
to  look  in  that  immodest  way  like  that  because  he  couldn't  resist 
the  sight  like  those  skirtdancers  behaving  so  immodest  before  gentle- 
men looking  and  he  kept  on  looking,  looking.  She  would  fain  have 
cried  to  him  chokingly,  held  out  her  snowy  slender  arms  to  him  to 
come,  to  feel  his  lips  laid  on  her  white  brow.  And  then  a  rocket 
sprang  and  bang  shot  blind  blank  and  O!  then  the  Roman  candle 
burst  and  it  was  like  a  sigh  of  O !  and  everyone  cried  O !  O !  and  it 
gushed  out  of  it  a  stream  of  rain  gold  hair  threads  and  they  shed  and 

44  The    Little    Review 

ah !  they  were  all  greeny  dewy  stars  falling  with  golden,  O  so  lovely ! 
O  so  soft,  sweet,  soft! 

Then  all  melted  away  dewily  in  the  grey  air:  all  was  silent.  Ah! 
She  glanced  at  him  as  she  bent  forward  quickly,  a  glance  of  piteous 
protest,  of  shy  reproach  under  which  he  coloured  like  a  girl.  He  was 
leaning  back  against  the  rock  behind.  Leopold  Bloom  (for  it  is  he) 
stands  silent,  with  bowed  head  before  those  young  guileless  eyes. 
What  a  brute  he  had  been!  At  it  again?  A  fair  unsullied  soul  had 
called  to  him  and,  wretch  that  he  was,  how  had  he  answered?  An 
utter  cad  he  had  been!  But  there  was  an  infinite  store  of  mercy  in 
those  eyes,  for  him  too  a  word  of  pardon  even  though  he  had  erred 
and  sinned  and  wandered.  That  was  their  secret,  only  theirs,  alone 
in  the  hiding  twilight  and  there  was  none  to  know  or  tell  save  the 
little  bat  that  flew  so  softly  through  the  evening  to  and  fro  and  little 
bats  don't  tell. 

Cissy  Caffrey  whistled,  imitating  the  boys  in  the  football  field  to 
show  what  a  great  person  she  was:  and  then  she  cried 
— Gerty  Gerty!  We're  going.  Come  on.  We  can  see  from  farther  up. 
Gerty  had  an  idea.  She  slipped  a  hand  into  her  kerchief  pocket 
and  took  out  the  wadding  and  waved  in  reply  of  course  without 
letting  him  and  then  slipped  it  back.  Wonder  if  he's  too  far  to.  She 
rose.  She  had  to  go  but  they  would  meet  again,  there,  and  she  would 
dream  of  that  till  then,  tomorrow.  She  drew  herself  up  to  her  full 
height.  Their  souls  met  in  a  last  lingering  glance  and  the  eyes 
that  reached  her  heart,  full  of  a  strange  shining,  hung  enraptured  on 
her  sweet  flowerlike  face.  She  half  smiled  at  him,  a  sweet  forgiving 
smile — and  then  they  parted. 

Slowly  without  looking  back  she  went  down  the  uneven  strand 
to  Cissy,  to  Edy,  to  Jacky  and  Tommy  Caffrey,  to  little  baby  Board- 
man.  It  was  darker  now  and  there  were  stones  and  bits  of  wood 
on  the  strand  and  slippy  seaweed.  She  walked  with  a  certain  quiet 
dignity  characteristic  of  her  but  with  care  and  very  slowly  because — 
because  Gerty  MacDowell  was  . 
Tight  boots?    No.    She's  lame!    O! 

Mr.  Bloom  watched  her  as  she  limped  away.     Poor  girl!    That's 
why  she's  left  on  the  shelf  and  the  others  did  a  sprint.     Thought 

TheLittleReview  45 

something  was  wrong  by  the  cut  of  her  jib.  Jilted  beauty.  Glad  I 
didn't  know  it  when  she  was  on  show.  Hot  little  devil  all  the  same. 
Near  her  monthlies,  I  expect,  makes  them  feel  ticklish.  I  have  such 
a  bad  headache  today.  Where  did  I  put  the  letter?  Yes,  all  right. 
All  kinds  of  crazy  longings.  Girl  in  Tranquilla  convent  told  me 
liked  to  smell  rock  oil.  Sister?  That's  the  moon.  But  then  why  don't 
all  women  menstruate  at  the  same  time  with  same  moon?  I  mean. 
Depends  on  the  time  they  were  born,  I  suppose.  Anyhow  I  got  the 
best  of  that.  Made  up  for  that  tramdriver  this  morning.  That 
gouger  M'Coy  stopping  me  to  say  nothing.  And  his  wife's  engage- 
ment in  the  country  valise  voice  like  a  pickaxe.  Thankful  for  small 
mercies.  Cheap  too.  Yours  for  the  asking.  Because  they  want  it 
themselves.  Shoals  of  them  every  evening  poured  out  of  offices.  Catch 
'em  alive.  O.  Pity  they  can't  see  themselves.  A  dream  of  wellfilled 
hose.  Where  was  that?  Ah,  yes.  Mutoscope  pictures  in  Capel  street : 
for  men  only.  Peeping  Tom.  Willie's  hat  and  what  the  girls  did 
with  it.  Do  they  snapshot  those  girls  or  is  it  all  a  fake.  Lingerie 
does  it.  Felt  for  the  curves  inside  her  deshabille.  Excites  them  also 
when  they're.  Molly.  Why  I  bought  her  the  violet  garters.  Say 
a  woman  loses  a  charm  with  every  pin  she  takes  out.  Pinned  together. 
O  Mairy  lost  the  pin  of  her.  Dressed  up  to  the  nines  for  some  body. 
In  no  hurry  either.  Always  off  to  a  fellow  when  they  are.  Out  on 
spec  probably.  They  believe  in  chance  because  like  themselves.  And 
the  others  inclined  to  give  her  an  odd  dig.  Mary  and  Martha.  Girl 
friends  at  school,  arms  round  each  other's  necks,  kissing  and  whis- 
pering secrets  about  nothing  in  the  convent  garden.  Nuns  with 
whitewashed  faces,  cool  coifs  and  their  rosaries  going  up  and  down, 
vindictive  too  for  what  they  can't  get.  Barbed  wire.  Be  sure  now 
and  write  to  me.  And  I'll  write  to  yoxi.  Now  won't  you?  Molly 
and  Josie  Powell.  Then  meet  once  in  a  blue  moon.  Tableau.  O,  look 
who  it  is  for  the  love  of  God !  How  are  you  at  all  ?  What  have  you 
been  doing  with  yourself?  Kiss  and  delighted  to,  kiss,  to  see  you. 
Picking  holes  in  each  other's  appearance.  You're  looking  splendid. 
Wouldn't  lend  each  other  a  pinch  of  salt. 


Devils  they  are  when  that's  coming  on  them.     Molly  often  told 

46  The    Little    Review 

me  feel  things  a  ton  weight.  Scratch  the  sole  of  my  foot.  O  that 
way!  O,  that's  exquisite!  Feel  it  myself  too.  Good  to  rest  once  in 
a.  way.  Wonder  if  it's  bad  to  go  with  them  then.  Safe  in  one 
way.  Something  about  withering  plants  I  read  in  a  garden.  Besides 
they  say  if  the  flower  withers  she  wears  she's  a  flirt.  All  are.  Dare- 
say she  felt  I.  When  you  feel  like  that  you  often  meet  what  you 
feel.  Liked  me  or  what?  Dress  they  look  at.  Always  know  a  fellow 
courting:  collars  and  cuffs.  Same  time  might  prefer  a  tie  undone 
or  something.  Trousers?  Suppose  I  when  I  was?  No.  Gently  does 
it.  Dislike  rough  and  tumble.  Kiss  in  the  dark  and  never  tell.  Saw 
something  in  me.  Wonder  what.  Sooner  have  me  as  I  am  than 
some  poet  chap  with  bearsgrease  plastery  hair,  lovelock  over  his 
dexter  optic.  To  aid  gentleman  in  literary.  Ought  to  attend  to  my 
appearance  my  age.  Didn't  let  her  see  me  in  profile.  Still,  j^ou  never 
know.  Pretty  girls  and  ugly  men  marrying.  Beauty  and  the  beast. 
Besides  I  can't  be  so  if  Molly.  Took  ofiE  her  hat  to  show  her  hair. 
Wide  brim  bought  to  hide  her  face,  meeting  someone  might  know 
her,  bend  down  or  carry  a  bunch  of  flowers  to  smell.  Hair  strong 
in  rut.  Ten  bob  I  got  for  Molly's  combings  when  we  were  on  the 
rocks  in  Holies  street.  Why  not?  Suppose  he  gave  her  money. 
Why  not?  All  a  prejudice.  She's  worth  ten,  fifteen,  more  a  pound. 
What?  I  think  so.  All  that  for  nothing.  Bold  hand.  Mrs  Marion. 
Did  I  forget  to  write  address  on  that  letter  like  the  postcard  I  sent  to 
Flynn.  And  the  day  I  went  to  Drimmie's  without  a  necktie. 
Wrangle  with  Molly  it  was  put  me  off.  No,  I  remember.  Ritchie 
Goulding.  He's  another.  Weighs  on  his  mind.  Funny  my  watch 
stopped  at  half  past  four.     Was  that  just  when  he,  she? 

O,  he  did.     Into  her.     She  did.    Done. 


Mr.  Bloom  with  careful  hand  recomposed  his  shirt.  O  Lord,  that 
little  limping  devil.  Begins  to  feel  cold  and  clammy.  After  effect 
not  pleasant.  They  don't  care.  Complimented  perhaps.  Go  home 
and  say  night  prayers  with  the  kiddies.  Well,  aren't  they?  Still  I 
feel.  The  strength  it  gives  a  man.  That's  the  secret  of  it.  Good 
job  I  let  off  there  behind  coming  out  of  Dignam's.  Cider  that  was. 
Otherwise  I  couldn't  have.     Makes  you  want  to  sing  after.    Lacaiis 

TheLittleReview  47 

esant  tatatara.  Suppose  I  spoke  to  her.  What  about?  Bad  plan 
however  if  you  don't  know  how  to  end  the  conversation.  Ask  them 
a  question  they  ask  you  another.  Good  idea  if  you're  stuck.  Gain 
time.  But  then  you're  in  a  cart.  Wonderful  of  course  if  you  say: 
Good  evening,  and  you  see  she's  on  for  it:  good  evening.  Girl  in 
Meath  street  that  night.  All  the  dirty  things  I  made  her  say.  Parrots. 
Wish  she  hadn't  called  me  sir,  O,  her  mouth  in  the  dark!  And  you 
a  married  man  with  a  single  girl.  That's  what  they  enjoy.  Taking 
a  man  from  another  woman.  French  letter  still  in  my  pocketbook. 
But  might  happen  sometime.  I  don't  think.  Come  in.  All  is  pre- 
pared. I  dreamt.  What?  Worst  is  beginning.  How  they  change 
the  venue  when  it's  not  what  they  like.  Ask  you  do  you  like  mush- 
rooms because  she  once  knew  a  gentleman  who.  Yet  if  I  went  the 
whole  hog,  say :  I  want  to,  something  like  that.  Because  I  did.  She 
too.  Offend  her.  Then  make  it  up.  Pretend  to  want  something 
awfully,  then  cry  off  for  her  sake.  Flatters  them.  She  must  have 
been  thinking  of  someone  else  all  the  time.  What  harm?  Must 
since  she  came  to  the  use  of  reason,  he,  he  and  he.  First  kiss  does 
the  trick.  Something  inside  them  goes  pop.  Mushy  like,  tell  by  their 
eye,  on  the  sly.  First  thoughts  are  best.  Remember  that  till  their 
dying  day.  Molly,  lieutenant  Mulvey  that  kissed  her  under  the 
Moorish  wall  beside  the  gardens.  Fifteen  she  told  me.  But  her 
breasts  were  developed.  Fell  asleep  then.  After  Glencree  dinner 
that  was  when  we  drove  home  the  featherbed  mountain.  Gnashing 
her  teeth  in  sleep.  Lord  mayor  had  his  eye  on  her  too.  Val  Dillon. 

There  she  is  with  them  down  there  for  the  fireworks.  My  fire- 
works. Up  like  a  rocket,  down  like  a  stick.  And  the  children,  twins 
they  must  be,  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  Want  to  be  grown- 
ups. Dressing  in  mother's  clothes.  Time  enough,  understand  all 
the  ways  of  the  world.  And  the  dark  one  with  the  mop  head  and 
the  nigger  mouth.  1  knew  she  could  whistle.  Mouth  made  for  that. 
Why  that  highclass  whore  in  Jammet's  wore  her  veil  only  to  her  nose. 
Would  you  mind,  please,  telling  me  the  right  time?  Fll  tell  you  the 
right  time  up  a  lane.  Say  prunes  and  prisms  forty  times  every  morn- 
ing, cure  for  fat  lips.     Caressing  the  little  boy  too.     Onlookers  see 

48  T  he    Lit  tl  e    Review 

most  of  the  game.     Of  course  they  understand  birds,  animals,  babies. 
In  their  line. 

Didn't  look  back  when  she  was  going  down  the  strand.  Wouldn't 
give  that  satisfaction.  Those  girls,  those  girls,  those  lovely  seaside 
girls.  Fine  eyes  she  had,  clear.  It's  the  white  of  the  eye  brings  that 
out  not  so  much  the  pupil.  Did  she  know  what  I  ?  Course.  Like  a 
cat  sitting  beyond  a  dog's  jump.  Woman.  Never  meet  one  like  that 
Wilkins  in  the  high  school  drawing  a  picture  of  Venus  with  all  his 
belongings  on  show.  Call  that  innocence?  Poor  idiot!  His  wife  has 
her  work  cut  out  for  her.  Sharp  as  needles  they  are.  When  I  said 
to  Molly  the  man  at  the  corner  of  CufEe  street  was  goodlooking, 
thought  she  might  like,  twigged  at  once  he  had  a  false  arm.  Had  too. 
Where  they  get  that?  Handed  down  from  father  to  mother  to  daugh- 
ter, I  mean.  Bred  in  the  bone.  Milly  for  example  drying  her  hand- 
kerchief on  the  mirror  to  save  the  ironing.  And  when  I  sent  her  for 
Molly's  Paisley  shawl  to  Presscott's  by  the  way  that  ad  I  must, 
carrying  home  the  change  in  her  stocking.  Clever  little  minx!  I  never 
told  her.  Neat  way  she  carries  parcels  too.  Attract  men,  small  thing 
like  that.  Holding  up  her  hand,  shaking  it,  to  let  the  blood  flow  back 
when  it  was  red.  Who  did  you  learn  that  from  ?  Nobody.  Something 
the  nurse  taught  me.  O,  don't  they  know?  Three  years  old  she  was 
in  front  of  Molly's  dressing-table  just  before  we  left  Lombard  street 
west.  Me  have  a  nice  pace.  Mullingar.  Who  knows?  Ways  of  the 
world.  Young  student.  Straight  on  her  pins  anyway  not  like  the 
other.  Still  she  was  game.  Lord,  I  am  wet.  Devil  you  are.  Swell 
of  her  calf.  Transparent  stockings,  stretched  to  breaking  point.  Not 
like  that  frump  today.  A.  E.  Rumpled  stockings.  Or  the  one  in 
Grafton  street.   White.    Wow!    Beef  to  the  heel. 

A  monkey  puzzle  rocket  burst,  spluttering  in  darting  crackles. 
Zrads  and  zrads,  zrads,  zrads.  And  Cissy  and  Tommy  ran  out  to  see 
and  Edy  after  with  the  pushcar  and  then  Gerty  beyond  the  curve  of 
the  rocks.  Will  she?  Watch!  Watch!  See!  Looked  round.  She 
smelt  an  onion.    Darling,  I  saw  your.    I  saw  all. 


Did  me  good  all  the  same.  Off  colour  after  Kiernan's,  Dignam's. 
For  this  relief  much  thanks.    In  Hamlet,  that  is.    Lord!    It  was  all 

The    Little    Review  40 

things  combined.  Excitement.  When  she  leaned  back  felt  an  ache  at 
the  butt  of  my  tongue.  Your  head  it  simplj'  swirls.  He's  right.  Might 
have  made  a  worse  fool  of  myself  however.  Instead  of  talking  about 
nothing.  Then  I  will  tell  you  all.  Still  it  was  a  kind  of  language 
between  us.  It  couldn't  be?  No,  Gerty  they  called  her.  Might  be 
false  name  however  like  my  and  the  address  Dolphin's  barn  a  blind. 

Her  maiden-  name  ivas  Je/nima  Broivn 

And  she  lived  zvith  her  mother  in  Irishtown. 

Place  made  me  think  of  that  I  suppose.  All  tarred  with  the  same 
brush.  Wiping  pens  in  their  stockings.  But  the  ball  rolled  down  to 
her  as  if  it  understood.  Every  bullet  has  its  billet.  Course  I  never 
could  throw  anything  straight  at  school.  Crooked  as  a  ram's  horn. 
Sad  however  because  it  lasts  only  a  few  years  till  they  settle  down  to 
potwalloping  and  fullers'  earth  for  the  baby  when  he  does  ah  ah. 
No  soft  job.  Saves  them.  Keeps  them  out  of  harm's  way.  Nature. 
Washing  child,  washing  corpse.  Dignam.  Children's  hands  always 
round  them.  Cocoanut  skulls,  monkeys,  not  even  closed  at  first,  sour 
milk  in  their  swaddles  and  tainted  curds.  Oughtn't  to  have  given 
that  child  an  empty  teat  to  suck.  Fill  it  up  with  wind.  Mrs.  Beaufoy, 
Purefoy.  Must  call  to  the  hospital.  Wonder  is  nurse  Callan  there 
still.  And  Mrs  Breen  and  Mrs  Dignam  once  like  that  too,  marriage- 
able. Worst  of  all  the  night  Mrs  Diggan  told  me  in  the  city  arms. 
Husband  rolling  in  drunk,  stink  of  pub  off  him  like  a  polecat.  Have 
that  in  your  nose  all  night,  whiff  of  stale  boose.  Bad  policy  however 
to  fault  the  husband.  Chickens  come  home  to  roose.  They  stick  by 
one  another  like  glue.  Maybe  the  women's  fault  also.  That's  where 
Molly  can  knock  spots  off  them.  It  is  the  blood  of  the  south.  Moorish. 
Also  the  form,  the  figure.  Hands  felt  for  the  opulent.  Just  com- 
pare for  instance  those  others.  Wife  locked  up  at  home,  skeleton  in 
the  cupboard.  Allow  me  to  introduce  my.  Then  they  trot  you  out 
some  kind  of  a  nondescript,  wouldn't  know  what  to  call  her.  Always 
see  a  fellow's  weak  point  in  his  wife.  Still  there's  destiny  in  it,  falling 
in  love.  Have  their  own  secrets  between  them.  Chaps  that  would 
go  to  the  dogs  if  some  woman  didn't  take  them  in  hand.  Then  little 
chits  of  girls,  height  of  a  shilling  in  coppers,  with  little  hubbies.  As 
God  made  them  He  matched  them.   Sometime?  children  turn  out  well 

50  The     Little     Review 

enough.    Twice  nought  makes  one.    This  wet  is  very  unpleasant. 


Other  hand  a  sixfooter  with  a  wifey  up  to  his  watchpocket.  Long 
and  the  short  of  it.  Very  strange  about  my  watch.  Wonder  is  there 
any  magnetic  influence  between  the  person  because  that  was  about  the 
time  he.  Yes,  I  suppose  at  once.  Cat's  away  the  mice  will  play.  I 
remember  looking  in  Pill  lane.  Also  that  now  is  magnetism.  Bac'c 
of  everything  magnetism.  Earth  for  instance  pulling  this  and  bein"^ 
pulled.  That  causes  movement.  And  time?  Well  that's  the  time 
the  movement  takes.  Then  if  one  thing  stopped  the  whole  ghesabo 
would  stop  bit  by  bit.  Because  it's  all  arranged.  Magnetic  needle 
tells  you  what's  going  on  in  the  sun,  the  stars.  Little  piece  of  steel 
iron.  When  you  hold  out  the  fork.  Come.  Come.  Tip.  Woman 
and  man  that  is.  Fork  and  steel.  Molly,  he.  Dress  up  and  look  and 
suggest  and  let  you  see  and  see  more  and  defy  you  if  you're  a  man  to 
see  that  and  legs,  look  look  and.    Tip.    Have  to  let  fly. 

Wonder  how  is  she  feeling  in  that  region.  Shame  all  put  on  before 
third  person.  Molly,  her  underjaw  stuck  out,  head  back  about  the 
farmer  in  the  ridingboots  with  the  spurs.  And  when  the  painters 
were  in  Lombard  street  west.  Smell  that  I  did,  like  flowers.  It  was 
too.  Violets.  Came  from  the  turpentine  probably  in  the  paint.  Make 
their  own  use  of  everything.  Same  time  doing  it  scraped  her  slipper 
on  the  floor  so  they  wouldn't  hear.  But  lots  of  them  can't  kick  the 
beam,  I  think.  Keep  that  thing  up  for  hours.  Kind  of  a  general 
all  round  over  me  and  half  down  my  back. 

Wait.  Hm.  Hm.  Yes.  That's  her  perfume.  Why  she  waved  her 
hand.  I  leave  you  this  to  think  of  me  when  I'm  far  away  on  the 
pillow.  What  is  it?  Heliotrope?  No.  Hyacinth?  Hm.  Roses,  I 
think.  She'd  like  scent  of  that  kind.  Sweet  and  cheap:  soon  sour. 
Why  Molly  likes  opoponax.  Suits  her  with  a  little  jessamine  mixed. 
Her  high  notes  and  her  low  notes.  At  the  dance  night  she  met  him, 
dance  of  the  hours.  Heat  brought  it  out.  She  was  wearing  her  black 
and  it  had  the  perfume  of  the  time  before.  Good  conductor,  is  it? 
Or  bad?  Light  too.  Suppose  there's  some  connection.  For  instance 
if  you  go  into  a  cellar  where  it's  dark.  Mysterious  thing  too.  Why 
did  I  smell  it  only  now?   Took  its  time  in  corning  like  herself,  slow 

The    Little    Review  51 

but  sure.  Suppose  it's  ever  so  many  millions  of  tiny  grains  blown 
across.  Yes,  it  is.  Because  those  spice  islands,  Cinghalese  this  morn- 
ing, smell  them  leagues  off.  Tell  you  what  it  is.  It's  like  a  fine  fine 
veil  or  web  they  have  all  over  the  skin  fine  like  what  do  you  call  it 
gossamer  and  they're  always  spinning  it  out  of  them,  fine  as  anything, 
rainbow  colours  without  knowing  it.  Clings  to  everything  she  takes 
off.  Vamp  of  her  stockings.  Warm  shoes.  Stays.  Drawers:  little  kick 
taking  them  oft'.  Byby  till  next  time.  Also  the  cat  likes  to  sniff  in  her 
shift  on  the  bed.  Know  her  smell  in  a  thousand.  Bathwater  too.  Re- 
minds me  of  strawberries  and  cream.  Wonder  where  it  is  really. 
There  or  the  armpits  or  under  the  neck.  Because  you  get  it  out  of 
all  holes  and  corners.  Hyacinth  perfume  made  of  oil  of  ether  or  some- 
thing. Muskrat.  Bag  under  their  tails.  Dogs  at  each  other  behind. 
Good  evening.  Evening.  How  do  you  sniff?  Hm.  Hm.  Very  well, 
thank  you.  Animals  go  by  that.  Yes,  now,  look  at  it  that  way.  We're 
the  same.  Some  women  for  instance  warn  you  off  when  they  have 
their  period.  Come  near.  Then  get  a  hogo  you  could  hang  your  hat 
on.  Like  what  ?  Potted  herrings  gone  stale  or.  Boof !  Please  keep 
off  the  grass. 

Perhaps  they  get  a  man  smell  off  us.  What  though?  Cigary 
gloves  Long  John  had  on  his  desk  the  other.  Breath?  What  you  eat 
and  drink  gives  that.  No.  Mansmell,  I  mean.  Must  be  connected 
with  that  because  priests  that  are  supposed  to  be  are  different.  Women 
buzz  round  it  like  flies  round  treacle.  O  father,  will  you?  Let  me 
be  the  first  to.  That  diffuses  itself  all  through  the  body,  permeates. 
Source  of  life.  And  it's  extremely  curious  the  smell.  Celery  sauce. 
Let  me. 

Mr.  Bloom  inserted  his  nose.  Hm.  Into  the.  Hm.  Opening  of 
his  waistcoat.  Almonds  or.  No.  Lemons  it  is.  And  no,  that's  the 
soap.  ,|   !|^ 

O  by  the  by  that  lotion.  I  knew  there  was  something  on  my  mind. 
Never  went  back  and  the  soap  not  paid.  Two  and  nine.  Bad  opinion 
of  me  he'll  have.  Call  tomorrow.  How  much  do  I  owe  you  ?  Three 
and  nine?  Two  and  nine,  sir.  Ah.  Might  stop  him  giving  credit 
another  time.  Lose  your  customers  that  way.   Pubs  do.   Fellows  run 

52  TheLittleReview 

up  a  bill  on  the  slate  and  then  slinking  around  the  back  streets  into 
somewhere  else. 

Here's  this  nobleman  passed  before.  Blown  in  from  the  bay.  Just 
went  as  far  as  turn  back.  Always  at  home  at  dinnertime.  Looks 
mangled  out:  had  a  good  tuck  in.  Enjoying  nature  now.  Grace  after 
meals.  After  supper  walk  a  mile.  Sure  he  has  a  small  bank  balance 
somewhere,  government  sit.  Walk  after  him  now  makes  him  awk- 
ward like  those  newsboys  me  today.  That's  the  way  to  find  out.  Ask 
yourself  who  is  he  now.  The  Man  on  the  Beach,  prize  tidbit  story  by 
MrLeopold  Bloom.  Payment  at  the  rate  of  one  guinea  per  column. 
And  that  fellow  today  at  the  graveside  in  the  brown  mackintosh. 
Corns  on  his  kismet  however.  Healthy  perhaps  absorb  all  the. 
Whistle  brings  rain  they  say.  Must  be  some  somewhere.  Salt  in  the 
Ormond  damp.  The  body  feels  the  atmosphere.  Old  Betty's  joints 
are  on  the  rack.  Mother  Shipton's  prophecy  that  is  about  ships  around 
they  fly  in  the  twinkling.  No.  Signs  of  rain  it  is.  The  royal  reader. 
And  distant  hills  seem  coming  nigh. 

Howth.  Bailey  light.  Two,  four,  six,  eight,  nine.  See.  People 
afraid  of  the  dark.  Also  glowworms,  cyclists:  lighting  up  time.  Jewels 
diamonds  flash  better.  Light  is  a  kind  of  reassuring.  Not  going  to 
hurt  you.  Better  now  of  course  than  long  ago.  Country  roads.  Run 
you  through  the  small  guts  for  nothing.  Still  two  types  there  are 
you  bob  against.  Scowl  or  smile.  Not  at  all.  Best  time  to  spray  plants 
too  in  the  shade  after  the  sun.  Were  those  nightclouds  there  all  the 
time?  Land  of  the  setting  sun  this.  Homerule  sun  setting  in  the 
northeast.    My  native  land,  goodnight. 

Dew  falling.  Bad  for  you,  dear,  to  sit  on  that  stone.  Brings  on 
white  fluxions.  Might  get  piles  myself.  Sticks  too  like  a  summer  cold, 
sore  on  the  mouth.  Friction  of  the  position.  Like  to  be  that  rock  she 
sat  on.  Also  the  library  today:  those  girls  graduates.  Happy  chairs 
under  them.  But  it's  the  evening  influence.  They  all  feel  that.  Open 
like  flowers,  know  their  hours,  sunflowers,  Jerusalem  artichokes  in 
ballrooms,  chandeliers,  avenues  under  the  lamps.  Nightstock  in  Mat 
Dillon's  garden  where  I  kissed  her  shoulder.  June  that  was  too  I 
wooed.  The  year  returns.  And  now?  Sad  about  her  lame  of  course 
but  must  be  on  your  guard  not  to  feel  too  much  pity.  They  take  ad-, 

TheLittleReview  53 

All  quiet  on  Howth  now.  The  distant  hills  seem.  Where  we.  The 
rhododendrons.  I  am  a  fool  perhaps.  He  gets  the  plums  and  I  the 
leavings.  All  that  old  hill  has  seen.  Names  change:  that's  all.  Lovers: 
yum  yum. 

Tired  I  feel  now.  Drained  all  the  manhood  out  of  me,  little  wretch. 
She  kissed  me.  My  youth.  Never  again.  Only  once  it  comes.  Or 
hers.  Take  the  train  there  tomorrow.  No.  Returning  not  the  same. 
Like  kids  your  second  visit  to  a  house.  The  new  I  want.  Nothing 
new  under  the  sun.  Care  of  P.  O.  Dolphin's  barn.  Are  you  not  happy 
in  your?  Naughty  darling.  At  Dolphin's  barn  charades  in  Luke 
Doyle's  house.  Mat  Dillon  and  his  bevy  of  daughters:  Tiny,  Atty, 
Floey,  Sara.  Molly  too.  Eightyseven  that  was.  Year  before  we. 
And  the  old  major  partial  to  his  drop  of  spirits.  Curious  she  an  only 
child,  I  an  only  child.  So  it  returns.  Think  you're  escaping  and  run  into 
yourself.  Longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  way  home.  And  just  when 
he  and  she.  Circus  horse  walking  in  a  ring.  Rip  van  Winkle  we  played. 
Rip:  tear  in  Henny  Doyle's  overcoat.  Van:  bread  van  delivering. 
Winkle:  cockles  and  periwinkles.  Then  I  did  Rip  van  Winkle  cominj 
back.  She  leaned  on  the  sideboard  watching.  Moorish  eyes.  Twenty 
years  asleep.  All  changed.  Forgotten.  The  young  are  old.  His  gun 
rusty  from  the  dew. 

Ba.  What  is  that  flying  about?  Swallow?  Bat  probably.  Thin'is 
I'm  a  tree,  so  blind.  Metempsychosis.  They  believed  you  could  b: 
c'.ianj?.ed  into  a  tree  from  grief.  Weeping  willow.  Ba.  There  ho 
goes.  Funny  little  beggar.  Wonder  where  he  lives.  Belfry  up  there. 
Very  likely.  Hanging  by  the  heels  in  the  odour  of  sanctity.  Bell 
scared  him  out,  I  suppose.  Mass  seems  to  be  over.  Yes,  there's  the 
light  in  the  priest's  house.  Their  frugal  meal.  Remember  about  the 
mistake  in  the  valuation  when  I  was  in  Thorn's.  Twentyeight  it  is. 
Two  houses  they  have.  Gabriel  Conroy's  brother  is  curate.  Ba. 
again.  Wonder  why  they  come  out  at  night  like  mice.  They're  a 
mixed  breed.  Birds  are  like  hopping  mice.  What  frightens  them, 
light  or  noise?  Better  sit  still.  All  instinct  like  the  bird  in  drouth 
got  water  out  of  the  end  of  a  jar  by  throwing  in  pebbles.  Like  a 
little  man  in  a  cloak  he  is  with  tiny  hands.  Weeny  bones.  Almost 
see  them  shimmering,  kind  of  a  bluey  white.    Colours  depend  on  the 

54  The    Little    Revie  IV 

light  you  see.  Instance,  that  cat  this  morning  on  the  staircase.  Colour 
of  brown  turf.  Howth  a  while  ago  amethyst.  Glass  flashing.  That's 
how  that  wise  man  what's  his  name  with  the  burning  glass.  Then 
the  heather  goes  on  fire.  It  can't  be  tourists'  matches.  What?  Per- 
haps the  sticks  dry  rub  together  in  the  wind  and  light. 

Ba.  Who  knows  what  they're  always  flying  for.  Insects?  That 
bee  last  week  got  into  the  room  playing  with  his  shadow  on  the  ceiling. 
Birds  too  never  find  out  what  they  say.  Like  our  small  talk.  And 
says  she  and  says  he.  Nerve  they  have  to  fly  over  the  ocean  and  back. 
Lots  must  be  killed  in  storms,  telegraph  wires.  Dreadful  life  sailors 
have  too.  Big  brutes  of  steamers  floundering  along  in  the  dark, 
iowjng  out  like  seacows.  Faugh  a  ballagh.  Out  of  that,  bloody  curse 
to  you.  Others  in  vessels,  bit  of  a  handkerchief  sail,  pitched  about 
like  snuff  at  a  wake  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  Married  too. 
Sometimes  away  for  years  at  the  ends  of  the  earth  somewhere.  No 
ends  really  because  it's  round.  Wife  in  every  port  they  say.  She  has 
a  good  job  if  she  minds  it  till  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again.  If 
ever  he  does.  Smelling  the  tailend  of  ports.  How  can  they  like  the 
sea?  Yet  they  do.  The  anchor's  weighed.  Off  he  sails  with  a  scapular 
or  a  medal  on  him  for  luck.  Well?  And  the  tephilim  poor  papa's 
father  had  on  his  door  to  touch.  That  brought  us  out  of  the  land  of 
Egypt  and  into  the  house  of  bondage.  Something  in  all  those  super- 
stitions because  when  you  go  out  never  know  what  dangers.  Hanging 
on  to  a  plank  for  grim  life,  lifebelt  round  round  him,  gulping  salt 
water,  and  that's  the  last  of  his  nibs  till  the  sharps  catch  hold  of  him. 
Do  fish  ever  get  seasick? 

Then  you  have  a  beautiful  calm  without  a  cloud,  smooth  sea, 
placid,  crew  and  cargo  in  smithereens,  Davy  Jones'  locker.  Moon 
looking  down.    Not  my  fault,  old  cockalorum. 

A  lost  long  candle  wandered  up  the  sky  from  Mirus  bazaar  in  aid 
of  funds  for  Mercer's  hospital  and  broke,  drooping,  and  shed  a  cluster 
of  violet  but  one  white  star.  They  floated,  fell:  they  faded.  And 
among  the  elms  a  hoisted  lintstock  lit  the  lamp  at  Leahy's  terrace.  By 
the  screen  of  lighted  windows,  by  equal  gardens  a  shrill  voice  went 
crying,  wailing:  Evening  Telegraph,  extra  edition.  Result  of  the 
Gold  Cup  races :  and  from  the  door  of  Dignam's  house  a  boy  ran  out 

T  h  e    Lit  1 1  e    Re  V  i  e  w  55 

and  called.  Twittering  the  bat  flew  here,  flew  there.  Far  out  over 
the  sands  the  coming  surf  crept,  grey.  Howth  settled  for  slumber 
tired  of  long  days,  of  yumyum  rhododendrons  (he  was  old)  and  felt 
gladly  the  night  breeze  lift,  ruffle  his  many  ferns.  He  lay  but  opened 
a  red  eye  unsleeping,  deep  and  slowly  breathing,  slumberous  but 
awake.  And  far  on  Kish  bank  the  anchored  lightship  twinkled, 
winked  at  Mr.  Bloom. 

Life  those  chaps  out  there  must  have,  stuck  in  the  same  spot.  Irisli 
Lights  board.  Penance  for  their  sins.  Day  we  went  out  in  the  Erin's 
King,  throwing  them  the  sack  of  old  papers.  Bears  in  the  zoo.  Filthy 
trip.  Drunkards  out  to  shake  up  their  livers.  Puking  overboard  to 
feed  the  herrings.  And  the  women,  fear  of  God  in  their  faces.  Milly, 
no  sign  of  her  funk.  Her  blue  scarf  loose,  laughing.  Don't  know 
what  death  is  at  that  age.  And  then  their  stomachs  clean.  But  being 
lost  they  fear.  When  we  hid  behind  the  tree  at  Crumlin.  I  didn't 
want  to.  Mamma!  Mamma!  Frightening  them  with  masks  too. 
Poor  kids.  Only  troubles  wild  fire  and  nettlerash.  Calomel  purge  I 
got  her  for  that.  After  getting  better  asleep  with  Molly.  Very  same 
teeth  she  has.  What  do  they  love?  Another  themselves?  But  the 
morning  she  chased  her  with  the  umbrella.  Perhaps  so  as  not  to  hurt. 
1  felt  her  pulse.  Ticking.  Little  hand  it  was:  now  big.  Dearest 
Papli.  All  that  the  hand  says  when  you  touch.  Loved  to  count  m 
w.iist  coat  buttons.  Her  first  stays  I  remember.  Made  mc  laugh  t ) 
see.  Little  paps  to  begin  v\'ith.  Left  one  is  more  sensitive,  I  thin'c. 
Mine  tco.  Ne.irer  tiie  heart.  Her  growing  pains  at  night,  calling, 
wakening  me.  b  rightened  she  was  when  her  nature  came  on  her  first. 
Poor  child!  Strange  moment  for  the  mother  too.  Brings  back  her 
girlhood.  Gibraltar.  Looking  from  Buena  Vista.  O'Hara's  tower. 
The  seabirds  screaming.  Old  Barbary  ape  that  gobbled  all  his  family. 
Sundown,  gunfire  for  the  men  to  cross  the  lines.  Looking  out  over  tlie 
sea  she  told  me.  Evening  like  this,  but  clear,  no  clouds.  I  always 
thought  I'd  marry  a  lord  or  a  gentleman  with  a  private  yacht. 
Butuns  noches,  senorita.  El  nombre  ama  la  muchaha  hormosa.  Why 
me?    Because  you  were  so  foreign  from  the  others. 

Better  not  stick  here  all  night  like  an  oyster.    This  weather  makes 
you  dull.    Must  be  getting  on  for  nine  by  the  light.    Go  home.   Too 

56  T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R.  e  V  i  e  to 

late  for  Leah,  Lily  of  Killarney.  No.  Might  be  still  up.  Call  to  the 
hospital  to  see.  Hope  she's  over.  Long  day  I've  had.  Martha,  the 
bath,  funeral,  house  of  keys.  Museum  with  those  goddesses,  Dedalus' 
song.  Then  that  brawler  in  Barney  Kiernan's.  Got  my  own  back 
there.  Drunken  ranters.  Ought  to  go  home  and  laugh  at  themselves. 
Always  want  to  be  swilling  in  company.  Afraid  to  be  alone  like  a 
child  of  two.  Suppose  he  hit  me.  Look  at  it.  Other  way  round. 
Not  so  bad  then.  Perhaps  not  to  hurt  he  meant.  Three  cheers  for 
Israel.  Three  cheers  for  the  sister-in-law  he  hawked  about,  three 
fangs  in  her  mouth.  Extremely  nice  cup  of  tea.  Imagine  that  in  the 
early  morning  Everyone  to  his  taste  as  Morris  said  when  he  kissed 
the  cow.  But  Dignam's  put  the  boots  on  it.  Houses  of  mourning  so  de- 
pressing because  you  never  know.  Anyhow  she  wants  the  money.  Must 
call  to  the  Scottish  widow's  as  I  promised.  Strange  name.  Takes  it  for 
granted  we're  going  to  pop  off  first.  That  widow  on  Monday 
was  it  outside  Cramer's  that  looked  at  me.  Buried  the  poor  husband 
but  progressing  favorably.  Well?  What  do  you  expect  her  to  do? 
Must  wheedle  her  way  along.  Widower  I  hate  to  see.  Looks  so  forlorn. 
Poor  man  O'Connor  wife  and  five  children  poisoned  by  mussels  here. 
The  sewage.  Hopeless.  Some  good  motherly  woman  take  him  in  tow, 
platter  face  and  a  large  apron.  See  him  sometimes  walking  about 
trying  to  find  out  who  played  the  trick.  U.  p :  up.  Fate  that  is.  He, 
not  me.  Also  a  shop  often  noticed.  Curse  seems  to  dog  it.  Dreamt 
last  night?  Wait.  Something  confused.  She  had  red  slippers  on. 
Turkish.  Wore  the  breeches.  Suppose  she  does.  Would  I  like  her  in 
pyjamas?  Damned  hard  to  answer.  Nannetti's  gone.  Mailboat.  Near 
Holyhead  by  now.  Must  hail  that  ad  of  Keyes's.  Work  Hynes  and 
Crawford.  Petticoats  for  Molly.  She  has  something  to  put  in  them. 
What's  that?   Might  be  money. 

Mr.  Bloom  stooped  and  turned  over  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  strand. 
He  brought  it  near  his  eyes  and  peered.  Letter?  No.  Can't  read. 
Better  go.  Better.  I'm  tired  to  move.  Page  of  an  old  copybook. 
Never  know  what  you  find.  Bottle  with  story  of  a  treasure  in  it 
thrown  from  a  wreck.    Parcels  post.    Children  always  want  to  throw 

things  in  the  sea.  Trust?  Bread  cast  on  the  waters.  What's  this? 
Bit  of  stick. 

TheLittleReview  57 

O!  Exhausted  that  female  has  me.  Not  so  young  now.  Will  she 
come  here  tomorrow  ?  Will  I  ? 

Mr.  Bloom  with  his  stick  gently  vexed  the  thick  sand  at  his  foot. 
Write  a  message  for  her.    Might  remain.    What? 


Some  flatfoot  tramp  on  it  in  the  morning.  Useless.  Tide  comes 
here  a  pool  near  her  foot.  O,  those  transparent !  Besides  they  don't 
know.  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  other  world.  I  called  you  naughty 
boy  because  I  do  not  like. 


No  room.   Let  it  go. 

Mr.  Bloom  effaced  the  letters  with  his  slow  boot.  Hopeless  thing 
sand.  Nothing  grows  in  it.  All  fades.  No  fear  of  big  vessels  coming 
up  here.  Except  Guinness's  barges.  Round  the  Kish  in  eighty  days. 
Done  half  by  design.  • 

He  flung  his  wooden  pen  away.  The  stick  fell  in  silted  sand,  stuck. 
Now  if  you  were  trying  to  do  that  for  a  week  on  end  you  couldn't. 
Chance.  We'll  never  meet  again.  But  it  was  lovely.  Goodbye,  dear. 
Made  me  feel  so  young. 

Short  snooze  now  if  I  had.  And  she  can  do  the  other.  Did  too. 
And  Belfast.  I  won't  go.  Let  him.  Just  close  my  eyes  a  moment. 
Won't  sleep  though.   Bat  again.    No  harm  in  him.   Just  a  few. 

O  sweety  all  your  little  white  I  made  me  do  we  two  naughty  dar- 
ling she  him  half  past  the  bed  him  pike  hoses  frillies  for  Raoul  de 
perfume  your  wife  black  hair  heave  under  embon  senoritayoung  eyes 
Mulvey  plump  bubs  me  bread  van  Winkle  red  slippers  she  rusty 
sleep  wander  years  dreams  return  tail  end  Agendath  lovey  showed  me 
her  next  year  in  drawers  return  next  in  her  next  her  next. 

A  bat  flew.  Here.  There.  Here.  Far  in  the  grey  a  bell  chimed. 
Mr.  Bloom  with  open  mouth,  his  left  boot  sanded  sideways,  leaned, 
breathed.    Just  for  a  few. 




The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the  priests'  house  cooed  where 
Canon  O'Hanlon  and  Father  Conroy  and  the  reverend  John  Hughes 
S.  J.  were  taking  tea  and  sodabread  and  butter  and  fried  mutton 

58  T  he    Lit  1 1  e    Review 

chops  with  catsup  and  talking  about. 

Cuckoo.  ^ 


Cuckoo.  '' 

Because  it  was  a  bird  that  came  out  of  its  little  house  to  tell  the 
time  that  Gerty  MacDowell  noticed  the  time  she  was  there  because 
sh£  was  as  quick  as  anything  about  a  thing,  was  Gerty  MacDowell, 
and  she  noticed  at  once  that  th«  foreign  gentleman  that  was 
sitting  on  the  rocks  looking  was. 




{to  be  continued) 

^  New   Testament 

by   Sherivood    Anderson 


THE  nights  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi  River  have  the 
eyes  of  an  owl.  I  have  risen  from  the  place  where  I 
slept  under  a  tree  but  cannot  shake  the  sleep  out  of  my 
eyes.  The  nights  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi  River 
are  staring  nights.  They  look  at  men  with  the  pupils 
extended.  The  skies  are  empty  over  the  cities  and  the  plains.  The 
skies  have  not  formulated  a  thought  that  I  can  breathe  into  my  being. 
In  the  whole  valley  of  the  Mississippi  River  there  is  no  bed  of  thought 
in  which  I  can  lie. 

There  are  farm  women  living  in  houses  that  stand  beside  dusty 
roads  in  Illinois  and  Iowa.  In  Indiana  and  Ohio  there  are  many 
towns.  In  Michigan — far  up  where  the  valley  is  no  more  and  where 
the  cold  finger  of  the  north  touches  the  earth  in  September — there 
are  men  living  who  wear  heavy  boots  and  fur  caps  and  who  walk  all 
day  under  naked  trees. 

Everywhere  are  men  and  women  who  arouse  wonder  in  me.     I 

The    Little    Review  59 

have  awakened  the  feeling  of  wonder  in  myself.     I  have  awakened 
from  sleeping  under  a  tree. 

My  walking  far  out,  at  the  edge  of  life,  is  an  adventure  upon  which 
I  resolved  only  after  I  had  kissed  with  my  warm  lips  the  cold  fingers 
of  death.  I  am  walking  in  greater  and  greater  circles.  Sometimes  I 
am  afraid.    I  run  crazily  in  wider  and  wider  circles  when  I  am  afraid. 


There  was  a  woman  sitting  at  a  desk  in  an  ofKce  in  Chicago  whom 
I  went  to  visit.  I  told  her  my  feet  were  cold  because  I  had  spent  my 
life  walking  in  the  bed  of  a  river.  I  leaned  over  the  desk  and  peered 
into  her  eyes.  As  I  remember  her  she  was  a  small  woman  with  yellow 
hair.  As  I  leaned  forward  something  happened.  My  lips  touched 
her  lips.  My  cheeks  touched  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  opened  and  closed 
like  the  eyes  of  a  cat  in  a  darkened  room.  Her  eyes  were  like  little 
pools  into  which  I  threw  myself.  Like  a  beaver  of  the  north  I  had 
built  myself  a  home  in  the  pools. 

"My  lips  have  made  many  strange  words.  I  have  been  walking 
since  birth  in  the  bed  of  a  river,"  I  said  to  the  woman. 

I  must  return  to  the  seeking  of  truth.  The  woman  and  I  had  for 
a  long  time  walked  hand  in  hand.  One  evening  I  remember  we  got 
into  a  wagon  at  the  edge  of  a  town  and  rode  slowly  along  through  the 
dust  of  a  roadway  under  a  moon.  It  was  in  a  land  where  elderberry 
bushes  grew  by  the  fences.  We  stopped  by  a  gate  and  went  into  a 
pasture.  Cattle  stood  nearby  under  a  tree.  The  air  was  filled  with  a 
warm  milky  smell. 

That  must  have  been  in  September,  in  the  month  when  the  fingers 
of  the  north  play  over  the  fields. 

We  went  into  the  field  and  sat  on  wet  grass.  I  remember  that  I 
spoke  of  John  the  Baptist.  I  told  her  how  John  sat  on  a  hill  all  alone 
for  a  night  and  a  day  before  he  went  away  into  a  forest. 

It  was  quiet  in  the  field  when  I  went  there  with  the  woman.  "We 
are  brothers  and  sisters,"  I  said,  "let  us  make  love." 

My  arms  grew  very  hot  and  the  white  arms  of  the  woman  grew 
hot.     Her  hand,  caressing  the  grass,  touched  the  back  of  an  insect. 

60  TheLittleReview 

The  insect  sang  madly. 

The  insect  went  into  an  ecstasy. 

The  woman  and  I  came  out  of  the  field  and  departed  into  a  city, 
riding  in  a  wagon  that  had  no  springs.  I  remember  that  we  rode 
under  a  moon. 

I  remember  that  we  rode  slowly  along  under  a  moon  beside  corn- 

We  came  into  the  streets  of  a  city. 

We  came  into  sleeping  streets. 

The  people  in  the  houses  in  the  city  were  asleep. 

We  rode  in  a  slow-going  wagon  in  dark  streets  under  the  staring 
windows  of  houses. 

Later  I  went  to  the  woman  dressed  as  you  see  me  now.  I  went 
into  a  building  and  up  a  stairway  into  a  room.  I  leaned  over  the 
woman's  desk  as  she  sat  writing  words  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  I  said 
the  words  I  have  put  down  here  in  regard  to  the  matter  of  wading  in 

It  is  my  own  belief  the  whole  plan  was  matured  in  advance. 
It  is  my  own  belief  I  took  hold  of  insanity  as,  in  a  crowded  city 
street,  one  takes  hold  of  the  hand  of  a  child. 

The  incident,  however,  may  have  had  more  significance  than  that. 

Insanity  is  a  slow  moving  liquid  poured  into  a  cup. 

As  you  look  into  the  cup  your  eyes  change  their  colour. 

The  liquid  is  green. 

It  is  an  ultimate  blue. 

The  liquid  is  colorless. 

It  moves  out  of  the  West  into  the  East. 

My  notion,  I  fancy,  was  to  ask  the  woman  a  question.  I  wanted 
to  ask  if  she  would  drink  with  me  out  of  the  cup.  I  had  no  desire  to 
take  the  woman  away.  I  did  not  want  to  lift  the  woman  out  of  her 

I  am  uncertain  of  my  desires.  You  have  already  sensed  that. 
Women  in  farm  houses  by  dusty  roads  I  have  traveled,  the  men  of 

T  h  e    Li  t  tl  e    Re  V  i  e  w  6t 

the  north  who  walk  in  winter  in  heavy  cloth  boots  under  naked  trees, 
all  the  men  and  women  with  whom  I  have  walked  and  among  whom 
I  have  gone  talking  of  life  have  been  confusing  to  me. 

I  have  conceived  of  life  as  a  bowl  into  which  I  am  cast.  If  the 
outer  world  is  inhabited  by  gods,  as  I  choose  to  believe  it  is,  it  is 
because  I  am  minute  and  you  are  minute. 

I  cannot  keep  my  footing  on  the  side  of  the  bowl  of  life.  There  is 
however  no  humbleness  in  me.  I  constantly  strive  to  reach  out.  It 
is  that  makes  me  seem  strange  in  your  sight.  If  you  have  heard  my 
voice,  laughing  at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl,  it  is  because  I  have  an 
ambition  to  be  a  flea  in  God's  ear.  I  have  wished  to  set  up  a  roaring 
in  God's  head.  I  have  wished  to  roar  of  men,  women  and  children  I 
have  seen  walking  in  the  valley  of  a  river.  I  have  wished  to  remind 
God  of  my  love  of  my  fellows. 

That  last  statement  I  fear  is  a  lie.  I  am  not  concerned  with  the 
fate  of  my  fellows.  If  you  think  I  am  you  are  mistaken  about  me.  I 
am  not  one  who  breeds  in  the  beds  at  night.  I  am  one  who  walks 
up  and  down.  Breeding  does  not  concern  me.  I  have  no  motive  in 
climbing  on  the  side  of  the  bowl. 

I  wonder  if  my  motive  in  whispering  strange  words  to  a  woman  can 
be  explained.  I  am  sure  you  will  see  what  I  am  driving  at.  I  am 
wondering  if  my  motive  in  asking  her  to  drink  with  me  out  of  the 
cup  of  insanity  had  back  of  it  a  wholesome  desire. 

I  have  an  impulse  to  be  wholesome. 

Did  I  want  to  lift  her  over  the  side  of  the  bowl. 

Did  I  want  to  put  my  feet  on  her  slender  shoulders  and  leap  into 
the  arms  of  a  God. 

Did  I  desire  only  to  get  into  a  quiet  darkness. 

Did  I  wish  to  create  a  thought. 

Am  I  after  all  one  of  the  brfeeders,  one  of  those  who  lie  in  the  beds. 

Am  I  crawling  on  the  side  of  the  bowl  with  some  definite  desire 
iisleep  in  my  being. 

{to  be  continued) 

The  Reader  Critic 

by   F.   E.   Swan  see,  JVales: 

I  wonder  if  you  are  interested  in  impressions  of  you  as  a  whole. 
Stimulating,  undoubtedly.  Pleasant  frequently.  A  tonic,  a  damn  good 
tonic,  not  so  easy  to  take  with  laughter,  but  efficacious.  And  you  are 
always  an  urge.     Life  is  surely  all  heyday  for  you. 

Vincenc  Noga,   Chicago: 

You  have  earnestly  stated  that  "every  one  can  save  himself  nausea 
and  suffering  by  avoiding  the  artist."  Quite  so;  but  how  about  his  unholy 
product?  I  buy  a  newspaper  to  see  how  many  new  strikes  have  hatched 
out  over  night  and,  before  I  have  a  chance  to  read  a  word,  a  funny  cartoon, 
worth  $100  or  more,  is  glaring  at  me.  I  reside  seven  miles  from  the  stock- 
yards (  I  am  a  hog  scraper).  You  see,  I-cannot  avoid  riding  upon  street 
cars,  and  the  interiors  of  all  of  them  are  decorated  with  things  made  by 
artists.  Judging  me  by  my  occupation,  you  may  rightly  guess  that  my 
aesthetic  faculties  cannot  be  developed  to  any  radical  extent.  At  my  occupa- 
tion I  am  surrounded  with  repulsive  sights;  however,  they  never  inflict  upon 
my  stomach  so  much  discomfort  as  the  products  of  "Art"  in  the  street  car. 
One  can  hardly  pass  a  garbage  can  without  noticing  at  least  a  magazine 
cover  lurking  from  it.    ...  '«• 

Hoping  that  my  sincerity  shall  not  provoke  your  gentle  temper,  I  am 
for  curtailing  the  quantity,  and  improving  the  quality  of  art. 


313    FIFTH    AVENUE 






OF     ARTISTS,    LIFE:    DON'T     MISS 





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You  Really  Should  Read  These 


'  IMargot's  book  is  out  and  the  critics  rage  over  it  from  pole 
to  pole.  It  deals  intimately  with  every  prominent  person- 
ality of  the  last  generation  " — New  York  Herald. 

UMBO  Aldous  Huxley 

"This  young  man  can  write  Every  page  twinkle3  and 
sparkles  with  the  most  cheerful  pessimism  " 

— National  News. 
LEDA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS  Aldous  Huxley 

Mgorous,  sp'eiididly  youthful  poetry  touched  with  that 
originality  which  is  characteristic  of  Mi.  Huxley's  prose 


E.  F.  Benson 

"The  author  of  "Dodo"  is  admirably  fitted  to  shoot  folly  as 
it  flies  and  has  a  merry  time  with  some  of  the  fads  of  a 
small  community.' — 'Literay  Digest. 

LADY  LILLITH  Stephen  McKenna 

"Remarkable  and  engr^issing  pictures  of  contemporary 
English  society." — RicuMONn  Times-Dispatch.  A  heroine 
as  strikingly  fndividual  as  Sonia, 

MEN  AND  BOOKS  AND  CITIES  Robert  Cortes  Holliday 

"The  simplicity  of  his  style,  the  whimsical  imexpectednesa 
of  hisupinions,  are  aliogei  her  charming  " — New  York  Times 

OUR  WOMEN:  Chapters  on  the  Sex-Discord       Arnold  Bennet 

Author  of  "Clayhanyer"  and  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale" 
"shrewd  enlightened  comments  of  an  expert  witness  on  the 
relations  of  men  and  women." — New  York  Post. 






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No.   3 


Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven  (photograph  by  Man  Ray) 

Art  and  the  Law 

An  Obvious  Statement 


The  Bomb  Thrower 


Mask  (for  "King  Hunger") 

The  Robin's  House 

Photograph  of  Mina  Loy 

Lion's  Jaws 

Southern  Women 


Discussion : 

The  "Others"  Anthology 

John  Rodker's  Frog 


Margaret  Anderson 

Charles  DeMuth 

Ben  Hecht 

Soeurs  X .  .  . 

Herman  Rosse 

Djuna  Barnes 

Mina  Loy 

Stephen  Hudson 

Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 

John  Rodker 
Mina  Lov 

Carlos  Williams's  "Kora  in  Hell"  Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 
A  Note  on  H.  W.  Mimms  Hart  Crane 

(Photographs  by  Hervey  Mimms) 

Other  Books 


The  Russian  Dadaists 

E.  Robert  Schmitz 

The  Art  of  Marguerite  D'Alvarez 

Garden  Abstract 
Ulysses  (Episode  XIV) 
The  Reader  Critic, 

John  Rodker 

Robert  McAlmon 

L.  Lozoivick 

Margaret  Anderson 

Margaret  Anderson 

JVyndharn  Lewis 

Arthur  Winthrop 

Hart  Crane 

Carlo  Linati 

James  Joyce 



Art  and  the  haw 

by  jb 

HE  heavy  farce  and  sad  futility  of  trying  a  creative  work 
in  a  court  of  law  appalls  me.  Was  there  ever  a  judge 
qualified  to  judge  even  the  siropkst  psychic  outburst? 
How  then  a  work  of  Art?  Has  any  man  not  a  nincom- 
poop ever  been  heard  by  a  jury  of  his  peers? 

In  a  physical  world  laws  have  been  made  to  preserve  physical 
order.  Laws  cannot  reach,  nor  have  power  over,  any  other  realm. 
Art  is  and  always  has  been  the  supreme  Order.  Because  of  this 
it  is  the  only  activity  of  man  that  has  an  eternal  quality.  Works 
of  Art  are  the  only  permanent  sign  that  man  has  existed.  What  legal 
genius  to  bring  Law  against  Order! 

The  society  for  which  Mr.  Sumner  is  agent,  I  am  told,  was 
founded  to  protect  the  public  from  corruption.  When  asked  what 
public'?  its  defenders  spring  to  the  rock  on  which  America  was 
founded :  the  cream-puff  of  sentimentality,  and  answer  chivalrously 
"Our  young  girls."  So  the  mind  of  the  young  gicl  rules  this  country? 
In  it  rests  the  safety,  progress  and  lustre  of  a  nation.  One  might 
have  guessed  it.  .  .  .  but — why  is  she  given  such  representa- 
tives?    I  recall  a  photograph  of  the  United  States  Senators,  a  galaxy 

The    Little     Review 

of  noble  manhood  that  could  only  have  been  assembled  from  far-flun-j 
country  stores  where  it  had  spat  and  gossiped  and  stolen  prunes. 

The  present  case  is  rather  ironical.  We  are  being  prosecuted 
for  printing  the  thoughts  in  a  young  girl's  mind.  Her  thoughts  and 
actions  and  the  meditations  which  they  produced  in  the  mind  of  the 
sensitive  Mr.  Bloom.  If  the  young  girl  corrupts,  can  she  also  be 
corrupted?  Mr.  Joyce's  young  girl  is  an  innocent,  simple,  childish 
girl  who  tends  children  .  .  .  she  hasn't  had  the  advantage  of 
the  dances,  cabarets,  motor  trips  open  to  the  young  girls  of  this  more 
pure  and  free  country. 

If  there  is  anything  I  really  fear  it  is  the  mind  of  the  young  girl. 

I  do  not  understand  Obscenity ;  I  have  never  studied  it  nor  had 
it,  but  I  know  that  it  must  be  a  terrible  and  peculiar  menace  to  the 
United  States.  I  know  that  there  is  an  expensive  department  main- 
tained in  Washington  with  a  v;hief  and  fifty  assistants  to  prevent  its 
spread — and  in  and  for  New  York  we  have  the  Sumner  vigilanti. 

To  a  mind  somewhat  used  to  life  Mr.  Joyce's  chapter  seems  to 
be  a  record  of  the  simplest,  most  unpreventable,  most  unfocused  sex 
thoughts  possible  in  a  rightly-constructed,  unashamed  human  being. 
Mr.  Joyce  is  not  teaching  early  Egyptian  perversions  nor  inventing 
new  ones.  Girls  lean  back  everywhere,  showing  lace  and  silk  stock- 
ings; wear  low  cut  sleeveless  gowns,  breathless  bathing  suits;  men 
think  thoughts  and  have  emotions  about  these  things  everywhere — 
seldom  as  delicately  and  imaginatively  as  Mr.  Bloom — and  no  one  is 
corrupted.  Can  merely  reading  about  the  thoughts  he  thinks  corrupt 
a  man  when  his  thoughts  do  not?  All  power  to  the  artist,  but  this 
is  not  his  function. 

It  was  the  poet,  the  artist,  who  discovered  love,  created  the  lover, 
made  sex  everything  that  it  is  beyond  a  function.  It  is  the  Mr.  Sumners 
who  have  made  it  an  obscenity.  It  is  a  little  too  obvious  to  discus? 
the  inevitable  result  of  damming  up  a  force  as  unholy  and  terrific  as 
the  reproductive  force  with  nothing  more  powerful  than  silence,  black 
looks,  and  censure. 

The     Little     R  e  v  i  e 

"Our  young  girls"  grow  up  conscious  of  being  possessed,  as  by 
n  devil,  with  some  urge  which  they  are  told  is  shameful,  dangerous 
and  obscene.  They  try  to  be  "jiure"  with  no  other  incantations  than 
a  few  "obstetric  mutterings." 

Mr.  Sumner  seems  a  decent  enough  chap  .  .  ,  seriou-?  and 
colourless  and  worn  as  if  he  had  spent  his  life  resenting  the  caiodons. 
A  100  per  cent.  American  who  believes  that  denial,  resentment  ivd 
silence  about  all  things  pertaining  to  sex  produce  uprightness. 

Only  in  a  nation  ignorant  of  the  power  of  Art  .  .  .  insensi- 
tive and  unambitious  to  the  need  and  appreciation  of  Art  . 
could  such  habit  of  mind  obtain.  Art  is  the  only  thing  that  produces 
life,  extends  life — I  am  speaking  beyond  physically  or  mentally.  A 
people  without  the  experience  of  the  Art  influence  can  bring  forth 
nothing  but  a  humanity  that  bears  the  stamp  of  a  loveless  race.  Fac- 
simile women  and  stereotyped  men — a  humanity  without  distinction 
or  design,  indicating  no  more  the  creative  touch  than  if  they  were  as- 
sembled parts. 

A  beautiful  Russian  woman  said  to  me  recently,  "How  dangc-rwus 
and  horrible  to  fall  in  love  with  an  American  man !  One  could  never 
tell  which  one  it  was — they  are  all  the  same." 

There  are  still  those  people  who  are  not  outraged  by  the  mrn- 
tion  of  natural  facts  who  will  ask  "what  is  the  necessity  to  discuss 
them?"  But.  that  is  not  a  question  to  ask  about  a  work  of  Art. 
The  only  question  relevant  at  all  to  "Ulysses"  is — Is  it  a  work  of  Art? 
The  men  best  capable  of  judging  have  pronounced  it  a  work  of  the 
first  rank.  Anyone  with  a  brain  would  hesitate  to  question  the  ne- 
cessity in  an  artist  to  create,  or  his  ability  to  choose  the  right  subject 
matter.  Anyone  who  has  read  "Exiles,"  "The  Portrait,"  and 
"Ulysses"  from  the  beginning,  could  not  rush  in  with  talk  of  obscen- 
ity. No  man  has  been  more  crucified  on  his  sensibilities  than  James 

An  Obvious  Statement 

(for  the  millionth  time) 
by  Margaret  Anderson 


R.  SUMNER  is  a  representative  intelligence  (I  will 
say  later  what  value  I  put  upon  the  "representa- 
tive"),— a  serious,  sincere  man,  very  much  interested 
in  proving  his  conviction  that  James  Joyce  is  filthy  to 
read  and  contaminating  to  those  who  read  him. 

My  first  point  is  that  Mr.  Sumner  is  operating  in  realms  in 
which  it  can  be  proved  that  he  cannot  function  intelligently,  legiti- 
mately, or  with  any  relation  to  the  question  which  should  be  up  for 
discussion  in  the  court. 

That  question  is  the  relation  of  the  artist — the  great  writer — 
to  the  public. 

First,  the  artist  has  no  responsibility  to  the 
public  whatever;  but  the  public  should  be  con- 
scious of  its  responsibility  to  him,  being  mysteri- 
ously and  eternally  in  his  debt. 

Second,  the  position  of  the  great  artist  is 
impregnable.  You  can  no  more  destroy  him  than 
you  can  create  him.  You  can  no  more  limit  his 
expression,  patronizingly  suggest  that  his  genius 
present  itself  in  channels  personally  pleasing  to 
you,  than  you  can  eat  the  stars. 

I  should  begin  my  (quite  unnecessary!)  defense  of  James  Joyce 
with   this  statement:    I   know   practically   everything  that  will   be 

The    Little     Review 

said  in  court,  both  by  the  prosecution  and  the  defense.  I  disagree 
Avith  practically  everything  that  will  be  said  by  both. 

/  do  not  admit  that  the  issue  is  debatable. 

I  state  clearly  that  the  {quite  unnecessary !)  defense  of  beauty 
is  the  only  issue  involved. 

James  Joyce  has  never  writen  anything,  and  will  never  be  able 
to  write  anything,  that  is  not  beautiful.  So  that  we  come  to  the  ques- 
tion of  beauty  in  the  Art  sense, — that  is,  to  the  science  of  aesthetics, 
the  touchstone  which  establishes  whether  any  given  piece  of  writing, 
painting,  music,  sculpture,  is  a  work  of  Art  or  merely  an  effort  in 
that  direction  by  a  man  who,  however  he  may  wish  or  work,  has 
not  been  born  an  artist. 

You  will  say  this  brings  us  to  an  impasse ;  that  we  now  arrive 
at  that  point  where  two  autocracies  of  opinion  can  be  established — 
one  which  says  "This  is  Art"  and  the  other  which  says  "It  is  not." 
And  you  will  tell  me  that  one  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  right  as  the 
other, — and  that  therefore  every  man  is  thrown  back  upon  his  per- 
sonal taste  as  a  criterion,  etc. 

I  answer:  Autocracy"?  It  is  entirely  a  matter  of  autocracy  of 
opinion.  And  the  autocracy  that  matters,  that  can  prove  itself,  as 
against  that  which  cannot,  is  the  only  thing  we  are  concerned  with 
in  this  discussion.  It  is  the  only  thing  to  be  considered  in  any  Art 
discussion,  but  the  last  that  ever  w  considered.  Why  is  this?  Because 
it  never  occurs  to  the  Mr.  Sumners  of  the  world  that  Art  is  a  highly 
specialized  activity  to  which  they  must  bring  something  beyond  mere 
knowledge.  They  are  content  to  approach  even  without  knowledge. 
If  Mr.  Sumner  were  asked  to  judge  pearls,  for  instance,  he  wouldn't 
dream  of  expressing  an  opinion  unless  he  really  knew  how  a  good 
pearl  must  feel  to  the  touch,  how  it  must  weigh,  what  color  it  must  be. 
If  he  were  asked  to  buy  a  string  of  corals  for  a  connoisseur  he 
wouldn't  undertake  the  commission  unless  he  knew  that  Japanese 
corals  are  more  "beautiful"  than  Italian  corals,  and  that  he  couldn't 
buy  an  acceptable  string  for  less  than  $3,000.  In  short,  unless  he 
were  a  connoisseur  he  wouldn't  be  doing  these  things. 

In  Art  (and  this  is  the  crux  of  the  whole  business)   one  must 

10  T  h  e    L  it  1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w 

judge  with  a  touchstone  beyond  even  the  capacity  of  the  connoisseur. 
It  is  not  the  taste,  the  judgment  of  connoisseurs  that  has  established 
what  are  the  great  works  of  Art  in  the  world.  It  is  the  perception 
of  the  great  artists  themselves^ — the  judgment  of  the  masters. 

In  begininng  to  talk  of  this  kind  of  perception,  of  who  are  the 
masters,  it  is  necessary  to  begin  with  the  fundamentals  of  aesthetics. 
In  aesthetics  it  can  be  established; 

First,  that  to  a  work  of  Art  you  must  bring 
aesthetic  judgment,  not  moral,  personal,  nor  even 
technical  judgment.  It  is  not  the  human  feelings 
that  produce  this  kind  of  judgment.  It  is  a  capa- 
city for  art  emotion,  as  distinguished  fro?n  human 
eniotion,  that  produces  it. 

Second,  that  only  certain  kinds  of  people  are 
capable  of  art  emotion  {aesthetic  emotion).  They 
are  the  artist  himself  and  the  critic  whose  capacity 
for  appreciation  proves  itself  by  an  equal  capacity 
to  create. 

In  an  old  race  of  people,  like  the  Hindoos,  where  the  artist  is 
protected  from  the  assault  of  the  philistine  by  as  definite  a  caste 
system  as  exists  in  all  other  phases  of  Hindu  life,  the  kind  of 
thing  that  will  happen  to  us  in  a  United  States  court  could  not  take 
place.  That  civilization  is  founded  on  the  autocratic  recognition  of 
certain  values, — the  artist  as  the  highest  manifestation  of  life;  the 
critic  who  recognizes  him ;  the  philosopher  who  explains  him.  An 
autocracy — the  recognition  of  the  valuable  as  against  the  less  valu- 
able,— is  the  only  sound  basis  for  life.  Anything  else  is  shameful. 
Anything  else  means  that  the  exceptional  people  must  suffer  with 
the  average  people, — from  the  average  people.  This  is  the  ethics 
of  the  western  world.  Nearly  everyone  believes  this  to  be  inevitable, 
— even  desirable.  Mr.  Sumner  believes  it.  He  has  quoted  to  me  a 
remark  of  Victor  Hugo's  to  the  effect  that  personal  freedom  extends 

The     Little     Review  11 

just  to  that  point  where  it  does  not  interfere  with  the  personal  free- 
dom of  another.  I  have  said  to  him  "Mr.  Sumner,  that  is  an  inepeti- 
tude.  There  is  no  thinking  in  that  kind  of  remark."  I  don't  know 
just  where  Victor  Hugo  makes  this  banal  and  curiously  unthoughtful 
statement.  Perhaps  he  makes  it  only  in  connection  with  physical 
freedom, — in  which  case  it  is  not  entirely  senseless.  But  when  a 
good  mind  begins  to  reflect  on  the  subject  of  the  more  subtle  freedoms, 
what  does  it  say?  First  of  all,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  freedom. 
There  is  only  interdependence.  And  of  the  little  freedoms  that  can 
he  attained  or  respected,  in  this  great  maize  of  the  interdependence 
of  all  life,  let  us  respect  those  of  the  superior  people  rather  than  of 
the  inferior  people.  It  is  far  more  i7nporta7it  that  a  great  artist's 
freedom  to  write  as  he  pleases  he  respected  than  that  Air.  Sumner's 
freedom  to  suppress  what  he  does  not  know  to  he  a  ivork  of  Art  he 

Why  is  there  no  such  autocracy  in  this  country? — why  is  there 
no  caste  feeling  which  makes  a  man  humble  before  what  he  does  not 
understand — before  what  he  does  not  know  that  he  does  not  know — 
rather  than  confident  that  he  has  some  special  capacity  to  deal  with  it  ? 
It  is  because  in  America  every  human  being,  no  matter  what  his 
training,  his  business,  his  qualifications,  makes  some  mysterious  identi- 
fication of  himself  with  the  artist.  He  says  "I  love  the  better  things 
of  life,  I  go  to  concerts  and  art  galleries,  I  couldn't  live  without 
these  things" — and  that  is  supposed  to  endow  him  with  some  crea- 
tive participation.  I  can't  tell  you  how  many  people  have  said  to  me : 
"I  don't  know  anything  about  Art,  I  couldn't  write  a  poem  or  com- 
pose a  piece  of  music  to  save  my  life,  but  I  know  what  I  like,  I  have 
a  very  good  critical  sense,  and  I  feel  the  way  the  artist  does."  They 
mean  that  they  eat  Art,  live  on  it, — go  to  hear  good  music  in  order  to 
drown  in  the  emotions  it  gives  them.  In  America,  where  the  emo- 
tional life  has  been  allowed  so  few  direct  outlets,  this  is  what  hap- 
pens everywhere.  But  if  this  is  the  way  the  majority  of  humanity 
acts,  it  is  not  the  way  the  artist  acts.  And  the  thing  that  will  puzzle 
me  to  the  end  of  time  is  this:  You  can  tell  a  man  who  knows  a  great 
deal  about  insurance,  for  instance,  that  he  doesn't  know  enough 
mechanical  engineering  to  build  a  bridge,  and  he  doesn't  feel  insulted. 

12  The    Little    kevieiv 

But  if  you  tell  a  plumber,  or  an  engineer,  a  business  man,  a  lawyer, 
a  scholar,  a  club  woman,  a  debutante,  that  they  are  not  artists,  not 
creators  in  this  special  sense,  they  take  it  as  the  deepest  insult.  Of 
course,  I  suppose  this  shouldn't  exasperate  me.  I  should  take  it  all 
as  the  deepest  tribute  a  man  can  pay  to  that  mysterious  phenomenon, 
the  artist,  with  whom  he  thus  identifies  his  own  highest  instincts. 
Well,  I  wouldn't  be  exasperated ;  I  could  look  upon  it  all  as  a  rather 
charming  foolishness,  if  it  weren't  for  the  prosecution  of  that  human 
being  whom  all  mankind  in  its  best  moments  is  trying  to  impersonate. 
This  at  least  begins  the  argument.  Next  month  I  shall  report 
all  the  blatant  ineptitudes  of  the  court  proceedings  and  answer  them 
simply,  obviously,  and  patiently, — unless  I  shall  have  succumbed  in 
the  meantime  to  the  general  sense  of  devastating  futility  which  is 
really  the  only  good  sense  one  can  hope  to  preserve  in  these  con- 

To  close,  I  shall  quote  some  passages  on  the  theory  that  "Beauty 
is  a  state,"  from  Ananda  Coomaraswamy's  "Dance  of  Siva"  (pub- 
lished by  the  Sunwise  Turn,  New  York).    The  italics  are  my  own. 

"It  is  very  generally  held  that  natural  objects  such  as 
human  beings,  animals  or  landscapes,  and  artificial  objects 
such  as  factories,  textiles  or  works  of  intentional  art,  can  be 
classified  as  beautiful  or  ugly.  And  yet  no  general  principle 
of  classification  has  ever  been  found :  and  that  which  seems 
to  be  beautiful  to  one  is  described  as  ugly  to  another.  .  .  . 
Take,  for  example,  the  human  type :  every  race,  and  to  some 
extent,  every  individual,  has  an  unique  ideal.  Nor  can  we 
hope  for  a  final  agreement.  We  cannot  expect  the  European 
to  prefer  the  Mongolian  features,  nor  the  Mongolian  the 
European.  Of  course,  it  is  very  easy  for  each  to  maintain 
the  absolute  value  of  his  own  taste  and  to  speak  of  other 
types  as  ugly.  ...  In  like  manner  the  various  sects  main- 
tain the  absolute  value  of  their  own  ethics.  But  it  is  clear 
that  such  claims  are  nothing  more  than  statements  of  preju- 

T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Re  V  iew  13 

dice,  for  who  is  to  decide  which  racial  ideal  or  which  mor- 
ality is  'best'  ?  It  is  a  little  too  easy  to  decide  that  our  own 
is  best;  zue  are  at  the  most  entitled  to  believe  it  the  best  for 

"It  is  the  same  with  works  of  art.  Different  artists  are 
inspired  by  different  objects ;  what  is  attractive  and  stimulat- 
ing to  one  is  depressing  and  unattractive  to  another,  and  the 
choice  also  varies  from  race  to  race  and  epoch  to  epoch.  As 
to  the  appreciation  of  such  works,  it  is  the  same ;  for  men  in 
general  admire  only  such  works  *as  by  education  or  tempera- 
ment they  are  predisposed  to  admire.  To  enter  into  the  spirt 
of  an  unfamiliar  art  demands  a  greater  effort  than  most  are 
wiling  to  make.  .  .  .  There  are  many  who  never  yet 
felt  the  beauty  of  Egyptian  sculpture  or  Chinese  or  Indian 
painting  or  music.  That  they  have  the  hardihood  to  deny 
their  beauty,  however,  proves  nothing. 

"And  yet  there  remain  philosophers  firmly  convinced 
that  an  absolute  Beauty  {rasa)  exists.  .  .  .  It  is  also 
widely  held  that  the  true  critic  {rasika)  is  able  to  decide 
which  works  of  art  are  beautiful  (rasavant)  and  which  are 
not.  ...  It  remains  then,  to  resolve  the  seeming  contra- 
dictions. This  is  only  to  be  accomplished  by  the  use  of  more 
exact  terminology.  So  far  I  have  spoken  of  'beauty'  without 
defining  my  meaning,  and  have  used  one  word  to  express  a 
multiplicity  of  ideas.  But  we  do  not  mean  the  same  thing 
when  we  speak  of  a  beautiful  g;'"l  and  a  beautiful  poem ;  it 
will  be  still  more  obvious  that  we  mean  two  different  things 
if  we  speak  of  beautiful  weather  and  a  beautiful  picture. 
In  point  of  fact,  the  conception  of  beauty  and  the  adjective 
'beautiful'  belong  exclusively  to  aesthetic  and  should  only  be 
used  in  aesthetic  judgment.  We  seldom  make  any  such 
judgments  when  we  speak  of  natural  objects  as  beautiful; 
we  generally  mean  that  such  objects  as  we  call  beautiful  are 

14  The     Little     Review 

congenial  to  us,  practically  or  ethically.  Too  often  we  pre- 
tend to  judge  a  work  of  art  in  the  same  way,  calling  it  beau- 
tiful if  it  represents  some  form  or  activity  of  which  we  hear- 
tily approve,  or  if  it  attracts  us  by  the  tenderness  or  gaiety 
of  its  colour,  the  sweetness  of  its  sounds  or  the  charm  of  its 
movement.  But  when  we  thus  pass  judgment  on  the  dance 
in  accordance  with  our  sympathetic  attitude  toward  the 
dancer's  charm  or  skill,  or  the  meaning  of  the  dance,  we 
ought  not  to  use  the  language  of  pure  aesthetic.  Only  when 
we  judge  a  work  of  art  aesthetically  may  we  speak  of  the 
presence  or  absence  of  beauty,  we  may  call  the  work 
rasavant  or  otherwise;  but  when  we  judge  it  from  the  stand- 
point of  activity,  practical  or  ethical,  we  ought  to  use  a  cor- 
responding terminology,  calling  the  picture,  song  or  actor 
'lovely,'  that  is  to  say  lovable,  or  otherwise,  the  action 
'noble,'  the  colour  'brilliant,'  the  gesture  'graceful,'  or  other- 
wise, and  so  forth.  And  it  will  be  seen  that  in  doing  this  w^e 
are  not  really  judging  the  work  of  art  as  such,  but  only  the 
material  and  the  separate  parts  of  which  it  is  made,  the  activ- 
ities they  represent,  or  the  feelings  they  represent.    .    .    . 

"We  should  only  speak  of  a  work  of  art  as  good  or  bad 
with  reference  to  its  aesthetic  quality ;  only  the  subject  and 
the  material  of  the  work  are  entangled  in  relativity.  In 
other  words,  to  say  that  a  work  of  art  is  more  or  less  beau- 
tiful or  rasavant,  is  to  define  the  extent  to  which  it  is  a  work 
of  art,  rather  than  a  mere  illustration.  However  important 
the  element  of  sj^mpathetic  magic  in  such  a  work  may  be, 
however  important  its  practical  applications,  it  is  not  in  these 
that  its  beauty  consists. 

"What  then,  is  Beauty,  what  is  rasa  .  .  .  what  is 
this  sole  quality  which  the  most  dissimilar  works  of  art 
possess  in  common.  Let  us  recall  the  history  of  a  work  of 
art.  There  is  ( 1 )  an  aesthetic  intuition  on  the  part  of  the 
original  artist, — the  poet  or  creator;  then  (2)  the  internal 
expression  of  this  intiution, — ^the  true  creation  or  vision  of 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  15 

beauty,  (3)  the  indication  of  this  by  external  signs 
(language)  for  the  purpose  of  communication, — the  techni- 
cal activity;  and  finally  (4)  the  resulting  stimulation  of  the 
critic  or  rasika  to  reproduction  of  the  original  intuition,  or 
to  some  aproximation  to  it. 

"The  source  of  the  original  intuition  may,  as  we  have 
seen,  be  any  aspect  of  life  whatever.  To  one  creator  the 
scales  of  a  fish  suggest  a  rhythmical  design,  another  is  moved 
by  certain  landscapes,  a  third  elects  to  speak  of  hovels,  a 
fourth  to  sing  of  palaces,  a  fifth  may  express  the  idea  that  all 
things  are  enlinked,  enlaced  and  enamoured  in  terms  of 
the  General  Dance,  or  he  may  express  the  same  idea  equally 
vividly  by  saying  that  'not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground 
without  our  Father's  knowledge.'  Every  artist  discovers 
beauty  and  every  critic  finds  it  again  when  he  tastes  of  the 
same  experience  through  the  medium  of  the  external  signs. 
But  where  is  this  beauty?  We  have  seen  that  it  cannot  be 
said  to  exist  in  certain  things  and  not  in  others.  It  may  then 
be  claimed  that  beauty  exists  everywhere,  and  this  I  do  not 
deny,  though  I  prefer  the  clearer  statement  that  it  may  be 
discovered  anywhere.  If  it  could  be  said  to  exist  everywhere 
in  a  matrial  and  intrinsic  sense,  we  could  pursue  it  with  our 
cameras  and  scales,  after  the  fashion  of  the  experimental 
psychologists ;  but  if  we  did  so,  we  should  only  achieve  a 
certain  acquaintance  with  average  taste — we  should  not  dis- 
cover a  means  of  distinguishing  forms  that  are  beautiful 
from  forms  that  are  ugly.  Beauty  can  never  thus  be  meas- 
ured, for  it  does  not  exist  apart  from  the  artist  himself,  and 
the  rasika  who  enters  into  his  experience. 

"The  true  critic  (rasika)  perceives  the  beauty  of  which 
the  artist  has  exhibited  the  signs.  It  is  not  necessary  that 
the  critic  should  appreciate  the  artist's  meaning — every 
work  of  art  is  a  kamadhenu  yielding  many  meanings — for 

16  T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Review 

he  knows  without  reasoning  whether  or  not  the  work  is 
beautiful,  before  the  mind  begins  to  question  what  it  is 
'about.'  Hindu  writers  say  that  the  capacity  to  feel  beauty 
{to  taste  rasa)  cannot  be  acquired  by  study j  but  is  the  re- 
ward of  merit  gained  in  a  past  life;  for  many  good  men  and 
would-be  historians  of  art  have  never  perceived  it.  The  poet 
is  born,  not  made;  but  so  also  is  the  rasika,  whose  genius 
differs  in  degree,  not  in  kind,  from  that  of  the  original 
artist.    .    .    . 

"The  critic,  as  soon  as  he  becomes  an  exponent,  has  to 
prove  his  case ;  and  he  cannot  do  this  by  any  process  of 
argument,  but  only  by  creating  a  new  work  of  art,  the  criti- 
cism. His  audience,  catching  the  gleam  at  second  hand — but 
still  the  same  gleam,  for  there  is  only  one — has  then  the 
opportunity  to  approach  the  original  work  a  second  time, 
more  reverently." 


The  Bomb  Thrower 

by  Ben  Hecht 

MEN  and  women  swathed  in  streets  and  buildings ;  fac- 
tories, avenues,  houses  and  traffic  winding  them  mummy 
fashion.  He  stood  pressed  against  the  wall  of  a  sky- 
scraper. Hatless,  imshaven,  thin-lipped  and  with  the 
eyes  of  a  frightened  girl,  he  stood  watching  the  people 
in  the  streets. 

Their  movement  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  him  was  like  the 
play  of  shadows.  He  might  lose  himself  in  these  shadows.  His  legs 
inside  their  sogg>-  trousers  quiverer  pleasantly. 

He  raised  his  eyes  toward  the  window-pitted  altitudes.  A  patch 
of  sky  lay  neatly  balanced  between  the  roof  lines  of  the  street. 
The  curious  smile  of  a  man  saying  "yes"  without  knowing  what  it 
means  loosened  his  lips. 

He  must  look  at  people.  Men  were  moving  about  in  the  city 
hunting  him.  They  would  come  soon  and  take  him  away.  In  the 
meantime  he  must  fill  his  eyes  with  the  sight  of  people,  of  stone 
pavements,  of  doorways  and  plate  glass  windows  lettered  with  gold 
and  porcelain.     These  things  constituted  freedom. 

Curves  of  people,  blur  and  drip  of  people ;  why  did  they  seem 
different  now?  They  were  slaves  and  masters — murderous  blood- 
sucking rich  and  sweating  back-broken  poor.  There  was  this  tableau 
in  the  crowd ;  a  strong  lined  terrible  cartoon  was  in  the  crowd.  But 
his  eyes  or  his  mind  would  not  clear.     He  stared  in  vain. 

The  people  were  like  rain  on  the  sidewalk.  He  watched  them 
vanish  in  gusts  before  him.  He  felt  frightened  at  their  vagueness. 
Round  and  round  them  was  the  smoke  of  chimnies,  the  noise  of 
traffic  and  swirl  of  buildings.  They  were  wound  deep.  Legs  moved 
under  the  swathing.  Faces  wrapped  in  tons  of  stone,  in  miles  of 
steel,  drifted  blindly.     Life  seemed  lost  within  an  effigy. 

He  removed  a  cigarette  from  his  trouser  pocket  and  lighted  it, 
stafing  at  the  little  pyramid  of  flame  that  danced  at  the  end  of  his 

The    Little    Review  19 

nose.  Eventually  the  men  who  were  hunting  him  would  come  to 
this  corner.  They  would  see  him  against  the  skyscraper — hatless, 
unshaved,  smoking  a  cigarette.  He  told  himself  these  things,  taking 
pride  in  their  lucidity.    Then  his  lips  loosened  in  the  smile  again. 

No  one  was  hunting  the  people  on  the  sidewalk.  And  yet  they 
hurried  running  this  way  and  that,  darting  under  cars,  in  and  out 
of  doorways.  While  he  who  was  being  hunted  stood  motionless. 
Men  were  worming  their  w^ay  through  the  layers  of  the  city  like 
bewildered  maggots  wandering  over  a  mummy  case,  hunting  him. 
When  they  found  him  they  would  become  suddenly  large.  They 
would  take  him  by  the  wrists,  twisting  them  sharply,  and  hold  him 
among  them  at  the  curbing  while  a  crowd  gathered  and  a  wagon, 
clanging  vividly,  came  charging  out  of  the  traffic. 

He  came  back  to  himself.  He  must  deny  himself  the  simplicity  of 
fear.  If  he  stepped  into  the  crowd  he  would  begin  to  run.  He 
would  run,  knocking  people  over,  jumping  in  and  out  among  cars 
and  wagons.  His  legs  quivered  pleasantly  at  the  thought  and  the 
cigarette  dried  to  his  lips.  It  might  be  better  than  standing  as  he  was, 
with  unfocused  thoughts  nauseating  his  brain.  Yet  he  held  himself 
from  running,  his  unwashed  hands  flattened  against  the  cool  stone 
of  the  skyscraper  and  his  fear  like  the  soul  of  a  stranger  scurried 
about  in  his  body. 

His  thought  became  a  dream  that  twisted  itself  before  his  eyes, 
addressing  him  with  sudden  intimate  voices.  He  felt  the  city  like  a 
great  dice  box  shaking  about  him.  Men  and  women  rolled  and 
rattled  out  of  it  into  the  streets.  Standing  against  the  skyscraper  he 
could  observe  the  combinations — the  changing  hieroglyphs  of  dots. 
Now  the  city  shook  out  combinations  of  yellow,  blue  and  lavender 
hats ;  luscious  curves  of  women  and  doubled  fists  of  men  swinging 
against  the  black  angles  of  legs ;  faces  that  seemed  like  a  soiled  unrav- 
eling bandage  and  arrangements  of  wood  and  steel  that  were  con- 
tinually turning  corners.  And  now  it  shook  out  the  sound  of  laugh- 
ter and  the  shriek  of  horns. 

The  intimate  voices  said  to  him  there  was  no  meaning  to  life. 
He  had  once  been  mistaken  or  perhaps  insane.  Now  he  was  a  man 
recovered  from  a  delirium  of  mania  and  finding  himself  weak  and 
ealm  in  a  svjnny  pkee,     The  things  that  ha4  peopled  his  mania  bi" 

20  The    Little    Review 

came  a  distant  part  of  the  dream  before  his  eyes,  an  impossible  and 
persisting  yesterday.  He  watched  them.  There  was  the  high  ham- 
mering purpose  of  ideals  that  had  been  in  his  brain.  There  was  the 
clear  lust  that  had  animated  him.  He  had  been  moving  all  his 
life  in  the  light  of  this  lust.  It  had  played  like  a  searchlight  before 
him,  a  searchlight  on  a  tableau.  Masters  and  slaves — exploiting,  in- 
tolerable tyrants  with  red  faces  and  definitely-shaped  hearts;  and 
humanity  crucified  in  factories  and  slums.  These  things  had  been 
plain  yesterday.  Now  they  were  far  away  and  outside  of  him  in  a 

As  he  filled  his  eyes  with  the  sight  of  people  the  impossible  and 
persistent  yesterday  drifted  continually  before  him  as  if  it  no  longer 
belonged  to  the  world.  The  light  of  faith  that  had  supported  this 
yesterday  had  drained  itself  out  of  him.  He  saw  himself  stealing 
about  through  streets  with  a  thing  under  his  coat,  entering  a 
crowded  building  and  casually  hiding  the  thing  under  a  long  stone 
bench  on  which  people  were  sitting.  A  few  moments  later  amazing 
things  were  happening.  Windows  fell  into  the  street.  Walls  flew 
through  the  air.  The  crowded  building  into  which  he  had  carried 
the  thing  became  a  confusion  of  stone  and  bricks. 

He  watched  the  yesterday  again  and  saw  himself  standing  on  a 
corner  with  the  noise  of  explosion  still  in  his  ears.  It  had  remained 
in  his  ears  as  he  walked  away.  He  sought  now  to  recapture  it.  But  a 
silence  remained.  The  explosion  had  been  a  noise  heard  by  someone 
else.  The  yesterday  in  which  it  had  occurred  had  been  a  yesterday 
inhabited  by  someone  else. 

From  his  position  pressed  against  the  wall  of  the  skyscraper  he, 
the  man  who  had  carried  the  things  under  his  coat,  looked  upon  a 
world  in  which  he  had  never  lived  before.  The  tableau  and  the 
patterns  of  yesterday  were  shuffled  together  and  vanished.  The 
philosophy  by  which  he  had  read  into  its  heart  was  vanished.  Thought 
had  become  a  fantastic  shuffle  of  words,  a  flood  of  ink  and  a  flood 
of  sound  that  broke  against  the  movement  of  crowds  and  vanished. 

The  city  stared  down  at  him  with  its  geometrical  cloud  of 
windows.  The  streets  wound  themselves  around  him  and  the  zigzag 
tumble  of  his  dice  played  about  his  feet.  Men  were  prowling  through 
the  city  hunting  him,   peering  into   alley  ways,  ringing  door  bells, 

The     Little     Review  21 

searching  rooms,  questioning  scores  who  had  merely  known  his  name. 
They  would  find  him  flattened  against  the  wall  of  the  skyscraper 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

He  thought  idly  of  the  things  he  had  planned  to  say  with  his 
capture.  But  they  were  things  of  another  world — masters  and  slaves, 
dignity  of  murder,  blasting  a  hole  in  the  fat  and  purblind  conscious- 
ness of  the  public  through  which  it  might  see  the  vision  of  wrongs  and 
crucifixions.  The  words  of  the  thoughts  he  had  prepared  in  the 
world  that  no  longer  existed  lost  themselves  in  the  dream  before 
his  eyes. 

He  stared  about  him.  There  was  something  other  hunting  him 
than  the  police.  A  vision  hunted  him,  demanding  of  him  new  words 
to  give  it  life.  But  he  could  only  think  with  his  eyes.  With  his  eyes 
he  stared  at  the  vision  that  had  no  meaning  in  his  thought — women 
swaying  under  colored  dresses,  hips  jerking  as  they  moved;  men  with 
faces  lowered,  arms  swinging  as  they  moved ;  women  whose  faces 
were  like  lavender  corpses — vividly  dead  things,  painted,  smeared 
with  layers  of  powder ;  women  with  stiffened  faces  whose  cheeks 
were  hardened  into  tinsel ;  faces  with  sores  showing  blue  and  pink 
through  a  broken  enamel ;  faces  cherubically  curved  with  lips  that 
smiled  and  large,  irridescent  eyes  that  gleamed  with  impudence;  faces 
like  brooding  gestures;  old  faces — men  without  teeth  and  women 
whose  jaws  quivered  and  whose  eyes  shed  water;  faces  twisted  out  of 
human  guise ;  faces  like  little  whiskered  dogs,  cunning,  sodden,  de- 
formed into  vicious  grimaces  and  stamped  with  enigmatic  despairs 
and  enigmatic  elations;  faces  of  youth — dull,  empty,  clear-eyed  like 
little  freshets  of  water.  The  vision  of  faces  swept  by  him  like  the 
babble  of  a  strange  language.  Over  them  were  colours  of  hair,  oily 
and  rusted  colours,  blooming  with  purple,  black,  red,  green  and  yellow 
hats.  They  bobbed  by  him — faces,  hair  and -hats  making  queer 
lithographic  masks  running  before  his  eyes. 

He  watched  them  with  an  intensity  that  made  him  dizzy.  Hats 
of  men  like  a  stretch  of  crazily-slanted  tiny  roofs  fled  before  him  and 
remained  always  present.  Lean-handled  buildings  swelling  like  great 
clubs  at  the  top,  cars  clanging  and  crawling,  and  the  flutter  of  win- 
dows like  a  swarm  of  transfixed  locusts,  passed  into  his  eyes  and  left 
his  thought  blank.     There  was  no  meaning  to  be  read   in  them. 

22  7'he    Little    Review 

They  were  a  vision  for  eyes  alone.  Life  hunted  the  people  in  the 
street,  pursuing  them  through  the  windings  of  pavements  and  corri- 
dors; an  insensate  life,  like  the  bay  of  a  galloping  hound.  Men  and 
women  in  a  churn,  men  and  women  rolling  and  rattling  out  of  a 
dice  box.     There  was  no  other  pattern  or  tableau. 

With  the  shortened  cigarette  warming  his  lips,  he  remained 
against  the  wall  of  the  skyscraper.  His  shoulders  had  become 
hunched  like  those  of  a  man  stricken  with  cold.  He  seemed  to  have 
withered  inside  his  clothes  so  that  the  movements  of  his  body,  visible 
at  his  collarless  neck  and  wrists,  were  like  the  rattle  of  a  dead  nut 
inside  its  shell.  His  coat  and  trousers  hung  from  him  like  garments 
heavy  with  rain,  giving  him  a  soggy,  voluminous  exterior.  The 
corkscrew  bone  of  his  neck  slanted  punily  like  a  soft  candle  out  of 
the  grimy  socket  of  his  collar.  His  head  had  fallen  forward  as  if  he 
were  dozing. 

It  was  twilight  and  the  signs  over  the  sidewalks  popped  into 
vision  with  freshly-kindled  lights.  Names  and  slogans  spelled  them- 
selves against  the  thin  darkness.  Commodities,  luxuries,  trades,  food, 
drink  novelties  and  schemes  of  finance  jutted  their  illuminated  scrawls 
over  the  pavements,  stretching  in  fantastic  unrelation  down  the  sides 
of  the  street.  Under  them  the  faces  danced.  Raising  his  eyes  he 
looked  again  at  the  window-pitted  altitudes  now  shot  with  discs  of 
yellow.  The  patch  of  sky  that  had  lain  neatly  balanced  above  them 
had  withdrawn,  leaving  behind  a  devouring  dark. 

He  would  not  be  able  to  talk  to  the  police  as  he  had  planned. 
The  men  who  were  hunting  him  would  come  soon  and  drag  him  away 
from  the  wall  of  the  skyscraper.  His  cigarette  was  long  finished.  He 
searched  idly  for  another.  He  began  to  mumble  to  himself.  Where 
was  everybody  going?  Everywhere  in  the  world  they  were  moving 
like  this.  He  alone  wasn't  moving.  He  was  not  in  the  hunt.  He 
had  been  mistaken  or  perhaps  insane.  There  was  no  tableau  but  a 
hunt,  a  running  of  faces  and  hats ;  a  running  of  legs  and  bodies 
and  jerking  hips, 

A  hand  plucked  at  his  elbow.  His  body  became  silent.  A 
thought  hurried  from  him  like  a  frightened  little  dog.  The  street 
revolved  into  a  blur  of  hats  and  windows.  His  legs  inside  their 
trousers  rattled  about.     Moments  later  he  recalled  having  heard  a 

The    Little    Reviev)  23 

voice  speaking  sharply  to  him  to  move  on.  He  remembered  having 
been  jerked  by  the  elbow  into  the  midst  of  the  throng  on  the  side- 
walk. Move  on !  Then  they  were  still  hunting  him.  No  one  had 
found  him.  People  shot  by.  The  pleasant  quivering  of  his  legs 
attracted  his  attention.  They  were  moving  as  if  springs  were  shooting 
them  upward.  They  were  mounting  something.  And  his  arms 
were  floating  happily.     He  was  running. 

Down  the  street  he  ran,  a  hatless,  unshaven  figure  in  flapping 
trousers.  His  body  jumped  up  and  down  and  his  legs  moved  as  if 
they  were  being  blown  along.  In  and  out,  in  and  out,  past  yawning 
yellows  of  theatres  and  restaurants,  past  faces  that  vanished  like 
unfinished  words.  His  mind  was  at  peace.  The  nausea  was  drained 
out  of  it.  He  was  flying.  Over  cars  and  under  wagons,  down  curbs 
and  up  little  hills  of  bodies.  Men  were  hunting  him,  streaming  after 
him  with  the  gallop  and  bay  of  hounds.  He  opened  his  mouth  and 
let  out  the  wildness  of  his  heart. 

a  Francis  Poulene 



par  les 
Soeurs  X. . . 

*The  author  {infant  of  J  should  think  about  eighteen,  at  any  rate  can't 
he  over  tiventy)  has  managed  to  satirize  french  religious  instruction,  french 
scientific  instruction,  Brieux  and  three  schools  of  modern  art  ivith  remarkable 
economy  of  means.  The  book  is  a  chef  d'oeuvre, — it  has  all  the  virtues  re- 
quired by  the  academicians — absolute  clarity,  absolute  form,  beginning, 
middle,  end. — E.  P. 

Que  celui  d'entre  vous  qui  est  sans  peche 
lui  jette  le  premiere  pierre. —  {Jean — viii,  7) 


E  nfa  nee 

Sa  naissance  fut  sem- 
blable  a  celle  des  autres 

C'est  pourquoi  on  la 
nomma  Bibi-la-Bibiste. 

(Ceci  fut  I'enfance  de 



Le  sang  rouge  coulait 
dans  ses  arteres;  le  sang 
noir  coulait  dans  ses 
veines.    ( i ) 

(Telle  fut  I'adolescence 
de  Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 

(1)   Cf.  Caustier;  Anatomie  et  physiotogie  animate  et  <vegetate<. 



A  seize  ans,  elle  travail- 
lait  dans  un  atelier. 

—  Ai'e !  mon  nez  me 
demange  s'ecria-t-elle. 

—  C'est  un  vieux  qui 
t'aime,  repondirent  ses 
compagnes,  interrompant 
leur  chanson. 

Une  violente  emotion  la 
saisit.  Son  cceur  fit  volte- 
face  dans  sa  poitrine. 

(Telles  furent  les  amours 
de  Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 



Elle  sortit. 

Dans  la  rue  populeuse, 
les  vieux  messieurs  pas- 
saient,  nombreux.  Bibi- 
la-Bibiste  les  examinait  de 
son  regard  anxieux.  Mais 
aucun  ne  repondit  a  son 
appel.  Un  seul  lui  langa 
un  coup  d'ceil  enflamme, 
et  il  etait  jeune ! 

Ne  voulant  pas  s'oppo- 
ser  aux  dessiens  myste- 
rieux  de  la  Fatalite  (1), 
Bibi-la-Bibiste  poursuivit 
son  chemin. 

( Et  ceci  f ut  la  deception 
de  Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 

(1)    Nous    aurions    mis    "Providence"    si  le  Roman  avail  ete  destine 
a  "La  Croix." 




Dans  un  lit  d'hopital 
s'eteignit  Bibi-la-Bibiste. 
Comme  Marie  sa  patronne, 
comme  Jehanne  d'Arc, 
elle  etait  vierge.  Mais  sa 
fiche  portait  la  mention 

O     puissance    magique 
d'un  regard  amoureux!) 

(Et  ceci  est  le  dernier  et 
le  plus  tragique  chapitre  du 
roman  de  Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 

Cet  Ouvrage  a  ete  tire — Cinquante  exemplaires 
sur     Sirnili     Japan,     numerotis     de     1     a     50 


(Third    Starveling,    for    Andreyev's    "King    Hunger") 

The  Robin  s  House 

by  Djuna  Barnes 

IN  a  stately  decaying  mansion,  on  the  lower  end  of  the  Avenue, 
lived  a  woman  by  the  name  of  Nelly  Grissard. 
Two  heavy  rocks  stood  on  either  side  of  the  brown  stone  steps, 
looking  out  toward  the  park;  and  in  the  back  garden  a  foun- 
tain, having  poured  out  its  soul  for  many  a  year,  still  poured, 
murmuring  over  the  stomachs  of  the  three  cherubim  supporting  its 
massive  basin. 

Nelly  Grissard  was  fat  and  lively  to  the  point  of  excess.  She 
never  let  a  waxed  floor  pass  under  her  without  proving  herself  light 
of  foot.  Every  ounce  of  Nelly  Grissard  was  on  the  jump.  Her  fin- 
gers tapped,  her  feet  fluttered,  her  bosom  heaved;  her  entire  dia- 
phragm swelled  with  little  creakings  of  whale-bone,  lace  and  taffeta. 

She  wore  feathery  things  about  the  throat,  had  a  liking  for  deep 
burgundy  silks,  and  wore  six  petticoats  for  the  "joy  of  discovering 
that  I'm  not  so  fat  as  they  say."  She  stained  her  good  square  teeth 
with  tobacco,  and  cut  her  hair  in  a  bang. 

Nelly  Grissard  was  fond  of  saying:  "I'm  more  French  than 
human."  Her  late  husband  had  been  French ;  had  dragged  his  nation- 
ality about  with  him  with  the  melancholy  of  a  man  who  had  half- 
dropped  his  cloak  and  that  cloak  his  life,  and  in  the  end,  having 
wrapped  it  tightly  about  him,  had  departed  as  a  Frenchman  should. 

There  had  been  many  "periods"  in  Nelly  Grissard's  life,  a 
Russian,  a  Greek,  and  those  privileged  to  look  through  her  key-hole 
said  even  a  Chinese. 

She  believed  in  "intuition"  but  it  was  always  first-hand  intui- 
tion ;  sue  learned  geography  by  a  strict  system  of  love  affairs — never 
two  men  from  the  same  part  of  the  country. 

She  also  liked  receiving  "spirit  messages" — they  kept  her  in  toucli 
with  international  emotion — she  kept  many  irons  in  the  fire  and  not 
the  least  of  them  was  the  "spiritual"  iron. 

Then  she  had  what  she  called  a  "healing  toueh"- — she  eould 

32  The    Little    Review 

take  away  headaches,  and  she  could  tell  by  one  pass  of  her  hand  if 
the  bump  on  that  particular  head  was  a  bump  of  genius  or  of  avarice 
— or  if  (and  she  used  to  shudder,  closing  her  eyes  and  withdrawing 
her  hand  with  a  slow,  poised  and  expectant  manner)  it  was  the 
bump  of  the  senses. 

Nelly  was,  in  other  words,  dangerously  careful  of  her  sentimen- 
talism.  No  one  but  a  sentimental  woman  would  have  called  her 
great  roomy  mansion  "The  Robin's  House,"  no  one  but  a  sentimen- 
talist could  possibly  have  lived  through  so  many  days  and  nights  of 
saying  "yes"  breathlessly,  or  could  have  risen  so  often  from  her  bed 
with  such  a  magnificent  and  knowing  air. 

No  one  looking  through  the  gratings  of  the  basement  window 
would  have  guessed  at  the  fermenting  mind  of  Nelly  Grissard.  Here 
well-starched  domestics  rustled  about  laying  cool  fingers  on  cool 
fowls  and  frosted  bottles.  The  cook,  it  is  true,  was  a  little  untidy, 
he  would  come  and  stand  in  the  entry,  when  spring  was  approaching, 
and  look  over  the  head  of  Nelly  Grissard's  old  nurse,  who  sat  in  a 
wheel-chair  all  day,  her  feeble  hands  crossed  over  a  discarded  rug  of 
the  favorite  burgundy  color,  staring  away  with  half-melted  eyes  into 
the  everlasting  fountain,  while  below  the  cook's  steaming  face,  on  a 
hairy  chest,  rose  and  fell  a  faded  holy  amulet. 

Sometimes  the  world  paused  to  see  Nelly  Grissard  pounce  down 
the  steps,  one  after  another,  and  with  a  final  swift  and  high  gesture 
take  her  magnificent  legs  out  for  a  drive,  the  coachman  cracking  his 
whip,  the  braided  ribbons  dancing  at  the  horses'  ears. 

And  that  was  about  all — no,  if  one  cared  to  notice,  a  man,  in  the 
early  forties,  who  passed  every  afternoon  just  at  four,  swinging  a 
heavy  black  cane. 

This  man  was  Nicholas  Golwein — half  Tartar,  half  Jew. 

There  was  something  dark,  evil  and  obscure  about  Nicholas 
Golwein,  and  something  bending,  kindly,  compassionate.  Yet  he 
was  a  very  Jew  by  nature.  He  rode  little,  danced  less,  but  smoked 
great  self-reassuring  cigars,  and  could  out-ponder  the  average  fidgety 
American  by  hours. 

He  had  travelled,  he  had  lived  as  the  "Romans  lived,"  and  had 
sent  many  a  hot-eyed  girl  back  across  the  fields  with  something  to 
forget  or  remember,  according  to  her  nature. 

The    Little    Review  33 

This  man  had  been  Nelly  Grissard's  lover  at  the  most  depraved 
period  of  Nelly's  life.  At  that  moment  when  she  was  coloring  her 
drinking  water  green,  and  living  on  ox  liver  and  "testina  en  broda," 
Nicholas  Golwein  had  turned  her  collar  back,  and  kissed  her  on 
that  intimate  portion  of  the  throat  where  it  has  just  left  daylight,  yet 
has  not  barely  passed  into  the  shadow  of  the  breast. 

To  be  sure  Nelly  Grissard  had  been  depraved  at  an  exceedingly 
early  age,  if  depravity  is  understood  to  be  the  ability  to  enjoy  what 
others  shudder  at,  and  to  shudder  at  what  others  enjoy. 

Nelly  Grissard  dreamed  "absolutely  honestly" — stress  on  the  ab- 
solutely— when  it  was  all  the  fashion  to  dream  obscurely, — she  could 
sustain  the  conversation  just  long  enough  not  to  be  annoyingly  bril- 
liant, she  loved  to  talk  of  ancient  crimes,  drawing  her  stomach  in,  and 
bending  her  fingers  slightly,  just  slightly,  but  also  just  enough  to 
make  the  guests  shiver  a  little  and  think  how  she  really  should  have 
been  born  in  the  time  of  the  Cenci.  And  during  the  craze  for  Gau- 
guin she  was  careful  to  mention  that  she  had  passed  over  the  same 
South  Sea  roads,  but  where  Gauguin  had  walked  she  had  been  carried 
by  two  astonished  donkeys. 

She  had  been  "kind"  to  Nicholas  Golwein  just  long  enough 
to  make  the  racial  melancholy  blossom  into  a  rank  tall  weed.  He 
loved  beautiful  things,  and  she  possessed  them.  He  had  become  used 
to  her,  had  "forgiven"  her  much  (for  those  who  had  to  forgive  at  all 
had  to  forgive  Nelly  in  a  large  way),  and  the  fact  that  she  was  too 
fluid  to  need  one  person's  forgiveness  long  drove  him  into  slow  bitter- 
ness and  despair. 

The  fact  that  "her  days  were  on  her,"  and  that  she  did  not 
feel  the  usual  woman's  fear  of  age  and  dissolution,  nay,  that  she  even 
saw  new  measures  to  take,  and  a  fertility  that  only  can  come  of  a 
decaying  mind,  drove  him  almost  into  insanity. 

When  the  Autumn  came,  and  the  leaves  were  falling  from  the 
trees,  as  nature  grew  hot  and  the  last  flames  of  the  season  licked  high 
among  the  branches,  Nicholas  Golwein's  cheeks  burned  with  a  dull 
red,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  down. 

Life  did  not  exist  for  Nicholas  Golwein  as  a  matter  of  day  and 
after  day — it  was  flung  at  him  from  time  to  time  as  a  cloak  15  flung 
a  flunkey,  arid  this  made  him  proud,  morose,  silent. 


34  T  h  e    L  it  tl  e    Re  V  i  ew 

Was  it  not  somehow  indecent  that,  after  his  forgiveness  and 
understanding,  there  should  be  the  understanding  and  forgiveness  of 

There  was  undoubtedly  something  cruel  about  Nelly  Grissard's 
love;  she  took  at  random,  and  Nicholas  Golwein  had  been  the  most 
random,  perhaps,  of  all.  The  others,  before  him,  had  all  been  of  her 
own  class — the  first  had  even  married  her,  and  when  she  finally  drove 
him  to  the  knife's  edge  had  left  her  a  fair  fortune.  Nicholas  Golwein 
had  always  earned  his  own  living,  he  was  an  artist  and  lived  as 
artists  live.  Then  Nelly  came — and  went — and  after  him  she  had 
again  taken  one  of  her  own  kind,  a  wealthy  Norwegian — Nord,  a 
friend  of  Nicholas. 

Sometimes  now  Nicholas  Golwein  would  go  off  into  the  country, 
trying  to  forget,  trying  to  curb  the  tastes  that  Nelly's  love  had  nour- 
ished. He  nosed  out  small  towns,  but  he  always  came  hurriedly  back, 
smelling  of  sassafrass,  the  dull  penetrating  odor  of  grass,  contact  with 
trees,  half-tamed  animals. 

The  country  made  him  think  of  Schubert's  Unfinished  Sym- 
phony— he  would  start  running — running  seemed  a  way  to  complete 
all  that  was  sketchy  and  incomplete  about  nature,  music,  love. 

"Would  I  recognize  God  if  I  saw  him?"  the  joy  of  thinking 
such  thoughts  was  not  everyman's,  and  this  cheered  him. 

Sometimes  he  would  go  to  see  Nord ;  he  was  not  above  visiting 
Nelly's  lover — in  fact  there  was  that  between  them. 

He  had  fancied  death  lately.  There  was  a  tremendously  sterile 
quality  about  Nicholas  Golwein's  fancies,  they  were  the  fancies  of 
a  race,  and  not  of  a  man. 

He  discussed  death  with  Nord — before  the  end  there  is  some- 
thing pleasant  in  a  talk  of  a  means  to  an  end,  and  Nord  had  the  cold- 
ness that  makes  death  strong. 

"I  can  hate,"  he  would  say,  watching  Nord  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye;  "Nelly  can't,  she's  too  provincial — " 

"Yes,  there's  truth  in  that.  Nelly's  good  to  herself — what  more 
is  there?" 

"There's  understanding,"  he  meant  compassion,  and  his  eyes 
filled.     "Does  she  ever  speak  of  me?" 

It   was   begining   to   rain.      Large   drops  struqk   softly   against 


T  h  e    L  it  1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  35 

the  cafe  window  and  thinning  out  ran  down  upon  the  sill. 

"Oh  yes." 

"And  she  says?" 

"Why  are  you  never  satisfied  with  what  you  have,  Nicholas?" 

Nicholas  Golwein  turned  red.  "One  dish  of  cream  and  the  cat 
should  lick  his  paws  into  eternity.  I  suppose  one  would  learn  how 
she  felt,  if  she  feels  at  all,  if  one  died." 

"Why,  yes,  I  suppose  so." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  Nicholas  Golwein  in  a  furtive  man- 
ner, moving  his  lips  around  his  cigar — Nord  absently,  smiling  a  little, 
"Yes,  that  would  amuse  her." 

"What?"  Nicholas  Golwein  paused  in  his  smoking  and  let  his  hot 
eyes  rest  on  Nord. 

"Well,  if  you  can  manage  it — " 

Nicholas  Golwein  made  a  gesture,  shaking  his  cufiF-links  like  a 
harness — "I  can  manage  it"  he  said,  wondering  what  Nord  was 

"Of  course  it's  rather  disgusting,"  Nord  said. 

"I  know,  I  know  I  should  go  out  like  a  gentleman,  but  there's 
more  in  me  than  the  gentleman,  there's  something  that  understands 
meanness,  a  Jew  can  only  love  and  be  intimate  with  the  thing  that's 
a  little  abnormal,  and  so  I  love  what's  low  and  treacherous  and  cun- 
ning, because  there's  nobility  and  uneasiness  in  it  for  me — well,"  he 
flung  out  his  arms — "If  you  were  to  say  to  Nell,  he  hung  himself 
in  the  small  hours,  with  a  sheet — what  then?  Everything  she  had 
ever  said  to  me,  been  to  me,  will  change  for  her — she  won't  be  able  to 
read  those  French  journals  in  the  same  way,  she  won't  be  able  to 
swallow  water  as  she  has  always  swallowed  it.  I  know,  you'll  say 
there's  nature  and  do  you  know  what  I'll  answer:  that  I  have  a  con- 
tempt for  animals — just  because  they  do  not  have  to  include  Nelly 
Grissard's  whims  in  their  means  to  a  living  conduct — well  listen,  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  something" — he  became  calm  all  of  a  sudden 
and  looked  Nord  directly  in  the  face. 


"I  shall  follow  you  up  the  stairs,  stand  behind  the  door,  and 
you  shall  say  just  these  words  'Nicholas  has  hung  himself." 

"And  then  what?" 


36  TheLittleReview 

"That's  all,  that's  quite  sufficient — then  I  shall  know  everything. 

Nord  stood  up,  letting  Nicholas  open  the  cafe  door  for  him. 

"You  don't  object?"  Nicholas  Golwein  murmured. 

Nord  laughed  a  cold,  insulting  laugh.     "It  will  amuse  her — " 

Nicholas  nodded,  "Yes,  we've  held  the  coarse  essentials  between 
our  teeth  like  good  dogs — "  he  said,  trying  to  be  insulting  in  turn, 
but  it  only  sounded  pathetic,  sentimental. 

Without  a  word  passing  between  them,  on  the  following  day, 
they  went  up  the  stairs  of  Nelly  Gissard's  house,  together.  The 
door  into  the  inner  room  was  ajar,  and  Nicholas  crept  in  behind  this, 
seating  himself  on  a  little  table. 

He  heard  Nord  greet  Nelly,  and  Nelly's  voice  answering — "Ah 
dear" — he  listened  no  further  for  a  moment,  his  mind  went  back, 
and  he  seemed  to  himself  to  be  peaceful  and  happy  all  at  once.  "A 
binding  up  of  old  sores"  he  thought,  a  oneness  with  what  was  good 
and  simple — with  everything  that  evil  had  not  contorted. 

"Religion,"  he  thought  to  himself,  resting  his  chin  on  his  hands — 
thinking  what  religion  had  meant  to  all  men  at  all  times,  but  to  no 
man  in  his  most  need.  "Religion  is  a  design  for  pain — that's  it." 
Then  he  thought,  that,  like  all  art,  must  be  fundamentally  against 
God— God  had  made  his  own  plans — well,  of  that  later — 

Nelly  had  just  said  something — there  had  been  a  death-like 
silence,  then  her  cry,  but  he  had  forgotten  to  listen  to  what  it  was 
that  had  passed.  He  changed  hands  on  his  cane.  "There  is  someone 
in  heaven"  he  found  his  mind  saying.  The  rising  of  this  feeling  was 
pleasant — it  seemed  to  come  from  the  very  centre  of  his  being. 
"There's  someone  in  heaven — who?"  he  asked  himself,  "who?"  but 
there  was  no  possible  answer  that  was  not  blasphemy. 

"Jews  do  not  kill  themselves — " 

Nelly's  voice.  He  smiled — there  was  someone  in  heaven,  but 
no  one  here.  "I'm  coming"  he  murmured  to  himself — and  felt  a  sen- 
suous giving  away  in  the  promise. 

His  eyes  filled.  What  was  good  in  death  had  been  used  up 
long  ago — now  it  was  only  dull  repetition — death  had  gone  beyond 
the  need  of  death. 

Funnily  enough  he  thought  of  Nelly  as  she  was  that  evening 


T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  37 

when  she  had  something  to  forgive.  He  had  pulled  her  toward  him 
by  one  end  of  a  burgundy  ribbon,  "Forgive,  forgive,"  and  she  had 
been  kind  enough  not  to  raise  him,  not  to  kiss  him,  saying  "I  forgive" 
— she  just  stood  there  showing  her  tobacco-stained  teeth  in  a  strong 
laugh,  "Judas  elimininated."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  "I  have 
been  There,"  and  There  seemed  like  a  place  where  no  one  had  ever 
been.     How  cruel,  how  monstrous! 

Someone  was  running  around  the  room,  heavy,  ponderous.  "She 
always  prided  herself  on  her  lightness  of  foot,"  and  here  she  was 
running  like  a  trapped  animal,  making  little  cries  "By  the  neck!" — 
strange  words,  horrifying — unreal — 

"To  be  a  little  meaner  than  the  others,  a  little  more  crafty" — 
well,  he  had  accomplished  that  too. 

Someone  must  be  leaning  on  the  couch,  it  groaned.  That  took 
him  back  to  Boulogne,  he  had  loved  a  girl  once  in  Boulogne,  and 
once  in  the  dark  they  had  fallen,  it  was  like  falling  through  the  sky, 
through  the  stars,  finding  that  the  stars  were  not  only  one  layer  thick, 
but  that  there  were  many  layers,  millions  of  layers,  a  thickness  to 
them,  and  a  depth — then  the  floor — that  was  like  a  final  promise  of 
something  sordid,  but  lasting — firm. 

Sounds  rose  from  the  streets,  automobiles  going  up  town,  horses' 
hoofs,  a  cycle  siren,  that  must  be  a  child,  long  drawn  out,  and  pierc- 
ing— yes,  only  a  child  would  hold  on  to  a  sound  like  that. 

"Life  is  life,"  Nelly  had  just  said,  firmly,  decisively.  After  all 
he  had  done  this  well — he  had  never  been  able  to  think  of  death  long, 
but  now  he  had  thought  of  it,  made  it  pretty  real — he  remembered 
sparrows,  for  some  unknown  reason,  and  this  worried  him. 

"The  line  of  the  hips,  simply  Renoir  over  again — " 

They  were  on  the  familiar  subject  of  art. 

The  sounds  in  the  room  twittered  about  him  like  wings  in  a 
close  garden,  w^here  there  is  neither  night  nor  day.  "There  is  a 
power  in  death,  even  the  thought  of  death,  that  is  very  terrible  and 
very  beautiful — "    His  cane  slipped,  and  struck  the  floor. 

"What  was  that?"  the  voice  of  Nelly  Grissard  was  high,  excited, 
startled — 

"A  joke." 

Nicholas  Golwein  suddenly  walked  into  the  room. 

38  The     Little     Review 

"A  joke,"  he  said  and  looked  at  them  both,  smiling. 

Nelly  Grissard,  who  was  on  her  knees,  and  who  was  holdin;^ 
Nord's  shoe  in  one  hand,  stared  at  him.  It  seemed  that  she  must 
have  been  about  to  kiss  Nord's  foot. 

Nicholas  Golwein  bowed,  a  magnificent  bow,  and  was  about 
to  go. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself"  Nelly  Grissard  cried, 
angrily,  and  got  to  her  feet. 

He  began  to  stammer:  "I — I  am  leaving  town — I  wanted  to 
pay  my  respects — " 

"Well,  go  along  with  you — " 

Nicholas  Golwein  went  out,  shutting  the  door  carefully  behind 


Lions'  Jaws 

by  Mina  Loy 

FAR  away  on  the  Benign  Peninsular 

That  automatic  fancier  of  lyrical  birds 
Danriel  Gabrunzir 
with  melodious  magnolia 
perfumes  his  mis-en-scene 
where  impotent  neurotics 
wince  at  the  dusk 

40  The    Little    Review 

The  national  arch-angel 


several  countesses 

in  a  bath  full  of  tuberoses 

soothed  by  the  orchestra 

at  the  'Hotel  Majestic  Palace' 

the  sobbing 
from  the  psycho-pathic  wards 
of  his  abandoned  harem 
purveys  amusement  for  'High  Life' 

The  comet  conquerer 

show^ers  upon  continental  libraries 

translated  stars 

accusations  of  the  alcove 


with  a  pomaded  complaisance 

he  trims  rococco  liasons 

.     a  tooth-tattoo  of  an  Elvira 
into  a  Maria's  flesh 

And  every  noon 

bare  virgins  riding  alabaster  donkeys 

receive  Danriel  Gabrunzio 

from  the  Adriatic 

in  a  golden  bath-towel 

signed  with  the  zodiac 

in  pink  chenille 

Defiance  of  old  idolatries 
inspires  new  schools 

Danriel  Gabrunzio's  compatriots 
concoct  new  courtships 
to  intrigue 

T  h  e    Li  1 1  le    Review  41 

the  myriad-fleshed  Mistress 
of  "the  Celebrated" 

The  antique  envious  thunder 

of  Latin  litterateurs  J 

rivaling  Gabrunzio's  satiety 

burst  in  a  manifesto 

notifying  women's  w^ombs 

of  Man's  immediate  agamogenesis 

of  his  spiritual  integrity 
against  the  carniverous  courtesan 

of  the  flabbergast  movement 
hurled  by  the  leader  Raminetti 
to  crash  upon  the  audacious  lightening 
of  Gabrunzio's  fashions  in  lechery 
.     .     .     and  wheedle  its  inevitable  way 
to  the  "excepted"  woman's  heart 
her  cautious  pride 
extorting  betrayal 
of  Woman  wholesale 
to  warrant  her  surrender 
with  a  sense  of     .     .     .     Victory 


cracked  the  whip  of  the  circus-master 

astride  a  prismatic  locomotive 

ramping  the  tottering  platform 

of  the  Arts 

of  which  this  conjuring  commercial  traveller 

imported  some  novelties  from 

Paris  in  his  pocket 

souvenirs  for  his  disciples 

to  flaunt 

at  his  dynamic  carnival 

The  erudite  Bapini 

42  TheLittleReview 


in  auto-hypnotic  God-head 

an  a  mountain 

rolls  off  as  Raminetti's  plastic  velocity 

explodes  his  crust 

of  library  dust 

and  hurrying  threatening  nakedness 

to  a  Vermillion  ambush 

in  flabbergastism 

.     .     .     he  kisses  Raminetti 

full  on  his  oratory 

in  the  arena 

rather  fancying  Himself 

in  the  awesome  proportions 

of  an  eclectic  mother-in-law 

to  a  raw  menage. 

Thus  academically  chaperoned 

the  flabbergasts 

blaze  from  obscurity 

to  deny  their  creed  in  cosy  corners 

to  every  feminine  opportunity 

and  Raminetti 

anxious  to  get  a  move  on  this  beating-Gabrunzio-business 

possesses  the  women  of  two  generations 

except  a  few 

who  jump  the  train  at  the  next  station     .     .     . 

.     .     .     while  the  competitive  Bapini 

publishes  a  pretty  comment 

involving  woman  in  the  plumber's  art 

and  advertises 

his  ugliness  as  an  excellent  aphrodisiac 

Shall  manoeuvres  in  the  new  manner  ! 

pass  unremarked? 

•  •  •  "" 

These  amusing  men 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    Re  V  i  e  w  43 

discover  in  their  mail 

duplicate  petitions 

to  be  the  lurid  mother  of  "their"  flabbergast  child 

from  Nima  Lyo,  alias  Anim  Yol,  alias 

Imna  Oly 

(secret  service  buffoon  to  the  Woman's  Cause) 

While  flabbergastism  boils  over 
and  Ram  :  and  Bap : 
avoid  each  other's  sounds 
This  Duplex-Conquest 
claims  a  "sort  of  success" 
for  the  Gabrunzio  resisters. 



Raminetti  gets  short  sentences 

for  obstructing  public  thoroughfares 

Bapini  is  popular  in  "Vanity  Fair" 

As  for  Imna  Oly 

I  agree  with  Mrs.  Krar  Standing  Hail 

She  is  not  quite  a  lady. 

Riding  the  sunset 


the  lewd  precocity 

of  Raminetti  and  Bapini 

with  his  sonorous  violation  of  Fiume 

and  drops  his  eye 

into  the  fatal  lap 

of  Italy. 

Southern  IVomen 

by  Stephen  Hudson 

I  PAUSED  a  moment  at  the  corner  and  looked  down  the  line 
of  acacia  trees.  Their  leaves  were  rustling,  rhythmically  it 
struck  me,  very  softly  One,  two,  three,  it  would  be  about 
the  fifth  tree,  there  were  three  steps.  If  she  were  sitting  there, 
I  might  be  passing  and  stop  to  speak.  If  not,  well,  if  not  .  .  . 
I  could  see  the  white  mass  of  the  Capitol,  faint  voices  reached  me, 
singing.  It  was  a  steaming  hot  night.  I  took  out  my  handkerchief 
and  wiped  my  forehead,  glad  I  remembered  to  scent  it.  My  breath 
came  irregularly,  something  between  the  lower  part  of  my  chest  and 
my  throat  fell  and  rose,  alternately  opening  and  blocking  the  channel. 
It  was  very  absurd  that  I  couldn't  stop  it,  I  could  stop  it  by  turning 
round  and  walking  the  other  way.  But  I  wanted  to  see  her  tre- 
mendously, to  hear  her  voice,  breathe  her  air.  Annabel.  Annabel 
and  Mary  Lee.  Hadn't  I  read  .  .  .?  I  got  as  far  as  the  third 
tree  and  stopped  again,  looking.  It  was  light  still,  beastly  light. 
And  the  party  on  the  stoop  to  my  right  were  watching  me.  Some- 
body laughed.  I  sweated,  took  out  my  handkerchief  again,  crossed 
the  street  nonchalantly.  I  walked  on  very  slowly.  They  were  both 
there  and  a  man.     Spurr!   What  a  piece  of  luck. 

"Come  right  up,  Mr.  Lane,  won't  yew.  Mr.  Spurr.  Mr.  Lane 
from  London.  Yewer  from  London,  Mr.  Lane,  aren't  yew?  Isn't 
it  haat?  Gee, — where's  my  fan.  Jack?  Come  an'  sett  raaght  here, 
Mister  Lane.  Now,  altogether.  Away  down  South  in  Dixie  land." 
She  waved  her  hand,  Spurr  picked  two  or  three  times  at  the 
strings,  the  three  joined  in,  she  smiled  down  on  me.  Fancy  it's  being 
as  easy  as  that.  Jessie,  Emma  Joe,  Frank  Fogg,  Burton  Trent.  Up 
and  down  the  steps,  some  with  cushions,  some  without.  I  kept  my 
seat  below  Annabel,  it  was  twilight,  her  gold  slipper  was  on  my 
step,  the  tip  very  near  my  leg,  it  was  under  my  leg.  "We'll  hang 
John  Brown  on  a  sour  apple  tree."  The  little  toes  moved  up  and 
down  in  time  to  the  singing. 

T  h  e    Lit  1 1  e    Re  V  i  e  w  45 

It  was  dusk.  Spurr  and  Mary  Lee  had  disappeared.  Singing 
ceased.  Someone  proposed  the  drugstore  and  ice  cream  soda.  We 
trailed  along  in  couples.  We  were  alone.  How  d'yew  like  Nash- 
ville, Mr.  Lane?  So  that's  the  soft  Southern  voice.  It  is  soft.  She 
wore  a  light  veil  round  her  blondined  hair,  curved  her  head  down 
and  looked  up.  I  had  known  no  girls.  Ought  I  to  try  .  .  .  too 
soon  .  .  ,  Nashville  is  fascinating  .  .  .  she  knows  that 
word,  they  use  it  a  lot.  D'yew  mean  that?  D'yew  like  the  gurls 
How  can  you  ask,  how  could  one,  how  could   I,  .     . 

Now,  Mister  Lane,  but  isn't  he  just  sweet  .  .  .  How's  Nancy 
Bright?  D'yew  know,  I  knew  Nancy  Bright  when  I  was  ever  so 
little  .  .  .  sweet  she  waas  .  .  ,  and  to  think  she's  your  ant 
Pressure  on  my  arm.  I  hold  hers  close.  She  bends  her 
head  down  and  up  again  and  smiles,  lovely  teeth  in  the  moonlight. 
We  all  meet  at  the  corner  drugstore  with  its  soda  fountain  and 
man  in  white  jacket  to  tend  it.  What's  yours?  Isn't  that  just 
lovelly?  Goodbyes  at  the  door,  Frank  Fogg  has  organised  a  party  to 
drive  to  the  Gap  tomorrow.    Won't  that  be  lovelly? 

We  walk  back  as  before,  we  linger  at  a  side  avenue,  how  far 
can  I  go?  There  seems  to  be  nothing  to  say.  What  do  the  others 
talk  about?  I  continue  to  press  her  arm,  we  reach  the  steps;  to- 
morrow at  eleven.  Won't  it  be  lovelly?  The  downward  bend  of 
the  head.     Goodnight,  Mister  Lane. 

Are  they  all  looks,  these  Southern  women?  What  does  one 
say  to  them?  And  if  I  say  No,  it  is  as  though  I  said  Yes.  There  is, 
then,  no  meaning  in  words  for  them.  She  bends  her  head,  she  shows 
her  teeth,  her  legs.  What  would  I  say  if  I  were  older  and  knew 
all  about  women  everywhere?  Where  is  my  fear  of  tonight?  Where 
is  my  caring  of  tonight?  Left  at  the  drug-store  in  the  ice-cream 

My  steps  led  me  to  the  Capitol.  A  group  of  negroes  singing 
under  the  moon.  Must  have  been  there  for  hours,  for  I  heard  their 
voices  faintly  all  the  evening.  How  well  they  sing  in  chorus,  here 
and  there  a  banjo,  a  concertina.  At  the  end  of  the  half  circle,  a 
large  woman  with  a  coloured  handkerchief  on  her  shoulders  looks 
at  me  meaningly.  I  sit  on  the  parapet  near  her,  looking  back  at 

46  TheLittleReview 

Carry  me  back  to  ole  Tennessee,  the  voices  drone  out  into  the  still 
night  in  perfect  ryhthm.  She  moves  away  slowly.  I  can  see  her 
standing  in  the  shadows.  None  of  them  seems  to  notice.  I  follow 
her.  She  walks  on,  faster  now.  She  leaves  the  main  streets  and 
turns  up  a  narrow  one,  lighted  rarely.     She  stops  and  waits  for  me. 

"Yewse  cummin'  with  me,  honey?" 

I  nod. 

A  shack  of  a  house.  I  forbade  her  to  light  the  lamp.  She  cast 
her  garment  from  her.  I  bade  her  stand  where  the  moonlight  could 
search  and  expose  the  beauty  of  her  body  half  in  shadow.  I  made 
her  stand  there  and  drank  in  the  beauty  of  her  bronze  body.  I  gave 
her  five  dollars  to  stand  there  for  five  minutes  and  then  I  went 
my  way. 

Tomorrow  I  shall  drive  with  Annabel  and  she  will  say, 

"Isn't  Nashville  lovelly,  Mr.  Lane?" 


by  Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 

Appalling  Heart 

CITY  stir — wind  on  eardrum — 
dancewind :    herbstained — 
flowerstained — silken — rustling — 
tripping — swishing — frolicking — 
courtesing — careening — brushing — 
flowing — lying  down — bending — 
teasing — kissing :    treearms — grass — 
limbs — lips. 

City  stir  on  eardrum — . 
In  night  lonely 

peers — :  J 

moon — riding!  P?^ 

pale — with  beauty  aghast —  ~  \ 

too  exalted  to  share ! 

in  space  blue — rides  she  away  from  mine  chest — 
illumined  strangely — 
appalling  sister! 

Herbstained — flowerstained — 

shellscented — seafaring — 

foresthunting — junglewise — 

desert  gazing — 

rides  heart  from  chest — 

lashing  with  beauty — 

a  fleet — 

across  chimney — 

tinfoil  river 

to  meet 

another's  dark  heart ! 

Bless  mine  feet ! 

48  T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Review 

B  las  t 

TAKE  spoon — scapel — 
Scrape  brains  clear  from  you- 
how  it  hurts  to  be  void! 
blast  flew 
over  twin  hillocks 

singeing — seering  satanic  stink — 
flew — blew — 
blushroses ! 
barren  grew — 
to  you — 
sharp : 

pointed  pyramids 
silence — d  rums — 
— sphinx — 
I  smother — 
pranked  mother — 
from  stark  things!   !   ! 
stark  kings  in  rockchamber 
mockeye  set  amber 
within  mine  chest!  !  ! 
to  rest — 

ripple — glide — quiver : 
river ! 
overflow ! 
hillocks  inundated 

blush  ■ 


on  twin  hillocks  ''  ■ ' 

smaragd  isle !  ? 

awhile — awhile — !  ' 

T  h  e    L  it  1 1  e    Re  V  i  e  w  49 

M 0 on s  ton  e 

LAKE — palegreen — shrouded — 
skylake — clouded — shrouded — 
yearning — blackblue — 
sickness  of  heart —  ^ 

pomgranate  hue — 
sickness  of  longing — 



In  cloud — nay — ach — shroud — 

nay — ach — shroud — ! 

of — breast — 

sickness  of  longing 


pomegranate  hue 

from  heart  in  chest — 

palegreen  lake  in  chest ! 

—  you! 

(Dance  of  Shiva) 

AROUND  me  hovers  presence  that  thou  art, 
secretly    atmosphere    draws    cloudy — dense — 
perfume  athwart  mine  cheekbone  swings  intense- 
smile  on  mine  lip — 
I  kiss  thee — 
with  mine  heart! 

Ja — with  mine  heart — 

that  can  perform  fine  tricks 

since  it  is  housed  with  wizzardry  and  art — ! 

soul — how  enchanted  art  thou — 

by  such  heart!  ! 

Ho! — lover  far — : 

50  T  h  e    L  it  tl  e    Re  V  i  ew 

C  ath edral 

WHY  didst  thou  go  away  from  me? 
Say — why  ? 
art  not  enslaved  by  balmy  wizzardry 
out  of  mine  jewelled  eye? 
not  by  mine  lips — so  softly  passionate — 
so  passionately  soft 
with  harnessed  strength — 
in  bridled  strain — 

musk — amber — myrrh  and  francincense— 
gold — damask — ivory — 
mine  gothic  cathedral — 
is  that  upbuild  in  vain 
for  thee — ? 
the  whom  I  shall  desire — 
to  pray? 
art  nor  thou  worshipper  nor  devotee? 

Thus  stand  I  desolate — 

priest  to  mine  tarnished  self — 

light  tapers  stately — upon  jadeworsted  shelf — 

not  to  decay. 

Is  It? 

IT  is — is  it — ? 
heart  white  sheet! 
kiss  it 
flame  beat! 
in  chest  midst 
print  teeth 

bite • 

this  green 
ponderous  night. 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    Re  V  iew  51 

Gihirda  'J'   Dance 

NOSE  straight 
smile  flower 
unfolding  in  sun  of  love. 
Petals:  large — sweet 

overwhelming  cinnamon-scented — almond — sandal — rose-carmine — 

cheekpale  in  ray  of  moon  torch 

ghosts — with  strength  of  ghosts — enticing  as  passion  in  graveyard  of 
flesh  dead — 

— alive 


Hands  cupped  in  greed  of  tissues  parched — 
owner's  wolfheart — ! 
devotion  simple  as  child's  suckled — 
eyes  of  god  drink  out  of  tankard 

of  palm  mine  face's  palegold  champagne. 
Whereas  now  thine  polar-bear's  sinister  ivorywhite  mouth  black — 
black  lips  cruel  tender  pluck 
purple  black  in  face  white — 
Tremble —  ? 
not  weep — ! 
I — thou. 

Tombstone — lie  I  beneath 
weight — passionate  weight — 
pallor — ! 
not  life  shall  call 
from  stoneheaviness' 
encompassing  weight. 
Eyes  of  god  drain  from  veins  cinnamonscented  rosedisks  carmine: 

to  blend — 
thou — I. 

No  move — ! 

from  mine  thine  cheek  not  part 

dual  rock — on  Nile — rigid: 

52  T  he    Little    Review 

sough ! 

Heart  stripped — men  approach — 

tinkling  rhythm — bells — howling — 

draft — eternit}' — 

silence  of  void — earsplitting — 

movement — 

dance — 

Gihirda's  dance. 

Das  Fin s ter e  Meer 
(an  Vate7^) 

WIR  fuhren  am  finstern  Strande 
Der  Himmel  hing  wollcenschwer 
Die  Wellen  rollten  zum  Lande 
Und  rannen  zuriick  in  das  Meer 
Gurgelnd  brach  sich  das  Wasser 
Am  Tang  und  am  Muschelsaum 
Die  Muscheln  schimmerten  blasser 
Als  Kirchenbliiten  am  Baum 
Durchdringe  und  leise  klagend 
Schrillte  der  Move  schrei 
Ueber  die  Wellen  jagend 
Fegte  sie  blitzend  vorbei. 

Meine  verschiittete  Seele 

Mochte  schreien  wie  sie 

In  ihrer  heiseren  Keh'e  "  ': 

Pfiflt  des  Orkans  melodie. 

Warum  meines  Herzens  Gedanken 
Mogt  ihr  nicht  blitzen  wie  sie 
O  warum  tramen  und  kranken 
Mit  dem  Feind  am  Knie. 



Margaret    Anderson 

Foreign   Editors: 

John  Rodker  Jules  Romains 

Advisory    Board 


The  ^^ Others''  Anthology 
by  John  Rodker 

OTHERS,"  after  various  phases,  has  now  achieved  a 
second  anthology  which  appears  to  have  settled  into 
that  steady  poetical  jog-trot,  the  "townsman's  guide 
to  nature,"  known  as  Georgian  poetry.  It  is  therefore  not  unfitting 
that  Conrad  Aiken  should  start  this  plump  ball  rolling  with  a  "Con- 
versation: Undertones"  which  is  part  Hueffer's  "To  all  the  Dead," 
part  Eliot's  "Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  but  in  form  so  incredibly  faded, 
so  emasculated  (must  the  Athenaeum  now  set  the  tone  of  "Others"), 

54  The    Little    Review 

while  the  rare  words,  the  mock  poetical  images,  the  detritus  of  every 
poet  that  has  ever  been,  are  worked  into  an  owl's  pellet.  If  Mr. 
Aiken  had  control  of  his  emotion,  if  he  had  clearness,  if  his  borrowed 
images  were  not  continually  ruined  by  manhandling,  the  "Portrait 
of  One  Dead"  would  be  a  fine  poem.  Something  it  undoubtedly  has, 
but  his  smooth  metres  are  such  as  lull  the  reader  into  an  unquestioning 

"Your  words  were  walls  which  suddenly   froze   round   her 
Your  words  were  windows — large  enough  for  moonlight." 

— how  thin  all  this  is, yet  how  exquisitely  it  has  the  colour  of  poetry: — 

"or  through  windy  corridors  of  darkening  end." 

whatever  that  may  mean. 

Carnevali's  feelings  are  as  yet  too  personal  for  them  to  get 

When  are  we  to  have  done  with  this  eternal  cinema  which  is 
what  most  America  poetry  now  seems  to  be.  Surely  Scribner's  is  the 
place  for  H.  L.  Davis  anyhow. 

Donald  Evans  has  the  magnificent  soul  of  a  poet — could  he  only 
write ! 

"In  which  room  shall  it  be  tonight — darling? 
His  eyes  swept  the  broad  facade,  the  windows 
Tier  upon  tier  and  his  lips  were  regnant: 
In  every  room,  my  beloved !" 

Frost  out  of  Georgian  Poetry  is  now  in  "Others,"  His  stuff  is 
at  any  rate  felt,  he  has  a  reserve  worth  expressing,  but  why  it  should 
be  poetry — God  knows!    Masters  still  influences, 

Giovanitti  is  also  too  much  occupied  by  a  myriad  influences  to  be 
able  to  sustain  his  prison  biography. 

Gould  calls  the  snowflakes  "oblivious  white  nuns,"  He  also  calls 
the  night  a  "vast  unlighted  church,"    My  God!   ! 

Marsden  Hartley's  cinematographies  are  abominable.  The  pal- 
triest film  has  more  guts.    All  these  folks  seem  to  think  poetry  is  a 

TheLittleReview  55 

polite  after  dinner  amusement  like  musical  chairs.  (Perhaps  it  is  in 

Or  rick  Johns's  cinema  play  "Kysen"  is  at  least  in  colours  and  has 
beauty  and  he  has  made  images. 

Fenton  Johnson  is  spoonrivering  with  a  vengeance.  More  blood, 
less  guts ;  but  why  must  every  American  wagon  be  hitched  to  a  star. 
In  "Tired"  the  worst  lines,  apart  from  their  irrelevance,  are: 

Pluck  the  stars  out  of  the  heavens.     The  stars 
mark  our  destiny.     The  stars  marked  my  destiny. 

Kreymborg's  poetry  is  still  a  succession  of  afterthoughts.  With 
Vachel  Lindsay's  "Daniel  Jazz"  it  is  obvious  that  "Others"  has  now 
made  up  its  mind  to  find  a  "place  in  the  sun."  And  indeed  it  is  time 
Kreymborg  had  a  competence.  A  community  should  be  satisfied 
when  it  has  got  all  it  can  out  of  the  first  thirty  years  of  a  man's  life. 
After  that  it  should  give  him  what  he  most  wants — money,  fame, 
leisure,  women,  etc. 

Haniel  Long's  students  are  good  little  vignettes — but  they  would 
have  been  equally  good  in  prose  and  perhaps  not  then  so  rich  in  anti- 

When  he  looms  in  the  rear  of  the  room 
like  a  peak  in  the  Andes 

the  lines  following: — 

but  how  would  you  like  to  teach 
a  peak  in  the  Andes 

are  indubitably  a  mistake.     Number  5,  6,  15  are  good  vignettes. 

Mina  Loy  appears  to  be  the  only  poet  in  this  bag  who  is  really 
preoccupied  with  that  curious  object  THE  SOUL.  It  is  painful 
to  notice  that  since  the  last  "Others"  she  appears  to  have  lost  grip. 
Nor  is  she  less  guilty  in  the  matter  of  "that  little  afterthought"  than 
her  confreres.     Her  effort  is  however  very  much  more  distinguished. 

The  same  is  true  of  Marianne  Moore,  whose  really  very  rich 
pyramids  are,  I  now  think,  a  quite  sufficient  justification,  though  bits 
of  the  plaster  are  sadly  trivial. 

56  The    Little    Review 

my  soul  shall 


be  cut  into 

by  a  wooden  spear. 

"The  Fish"  is  the  best  poem  in  the  anthology  because  it  has  been 
felt  more  and  worked  at  more;  by  a  more  original  mind. 

Lola  Ridge!    !    ! 

Sanborn :  a  description  of  a  fight  and  is  it  believable  without 
one  seen  adjective — one  illuminating  phrase.  Simply  a  pastiche  of 
every   sporting   description   speeded    up. 

M.  A.  Seiffert  and  Evelyn  Scott!  !  ! 

Wallace  Stevens's  new  poems  do  not  interest  me  as  much  as 
his  last,  but  the  "Exposition  of  the  Contents  of  a  Cab"  is  by  its  close- 
ness and  formality  a  model  for  all  the  inventories  in  this  book. 

Williams's  "Herbarium"  seems  to  me  uninteresting.  It  is  a 
detailed  inventory  of  various  herbs,  but  they  are  in  no  way  linked 
to  life.  I  would  condemn  him  to  silence  when  he  is  not  writng  poems 
like  "Spring-Strains"  which  is,  for  a  variety  of  reasons,  the  best 
American  poem  I  know. 

It  would  seem  then  that  the  most  difficult  thing  for  a  Georgian 
poet  is  to  say  something  when  he  has  nothing  to  say.  There  is  cer- 
tainly a  distinct  falling  off  in  the  quality  of  the  "Others."  True,  most 
anthologies  behave  similarly. 

John  Rodkers  Fj^og 
by  Mina  Loy 


HERE  did  I  hear  of  two  smooth  frogs 
clasped  among  rushes 
in  love  and  death"    .    .    . 

Where  indeed !    But  perhaps  to  be  loved  like  a  frog  is  the  best 
way  to  be  loved  by  Mr.  Rodker,  so  after  all  the  lady  addressed  on 

*"I'd  have  loved  you  as  you  deserved  had  we  been  frogs."     Hymns,  by 
John  Rodker.    The  Ovid  Press. 

The    Little     Review  57 

page  24  of  "Hymns"*  probably  got  all  she  deserved. 

And  here  in  the  Little  Review  we  have  Rodker  playing  frog 
to  America — ^no  wonder  he  is  impressed  by  Donald  Evans  "In  every 
room,  my  beloved !" — and  a  little  jealously  wishes  he  could  only  write 
— no  fun  being  beaten  at  both  games. 

On  the  other  hand  had  he  his  way  with  Marsden  Hartley  he 
would  put  guts  into  "film,"  and  even  demands  guts  of  Spoonriver 
but  why  must  every  American  wagon  be  hitched  to  Mr. 
Rodker's  guts? 

From  Orrick  Johns  he  takes  his  "least"  in  colours,  from  Fenton 
Johnson  "the  worst  lines  apart  from  their  irrelevance." 

He  objects  to  Carlos  Williams  shouting  while  he  writes  "Her- 
bariums"— my!  we  have  good  ears  in  England, — while  he  cannot 
understand  how  the  end  of  a  corridor  should  look  dark;  his  eyes 
being  less  efficient  than  his  ears;  cinematographs  tire  him. 

Our  cousinly  critic  is  most  solicitous  of  Mr.  Kreymborg's  comfort 
during  middle  age,  but  Mr,  Kreymborg  committed  a  nasty  little  sex 
suicide  when  he  "would  be"  ...  "a  woman  big  with  gentle 
yielding";  he  suggests  a  posthumous  antidote,  state  provision  of  what 
he  most  wants — money,  fame,  leisure,  women — never  mind  what  the 
women  want  .  .  .  well,  most  of  them  must  content  themselves 
with  exclamation  marks,  according  to  Mr.  Rodker. 

From  the  frog  to  .  .  .  "  'The  Fish'  ...  is  the  best 
poem  in  the  Antholog>%"  and  "the  most  difficult  thing  for  a  Georgian 
poet  is  to  say  something  w^hen  he  has  nothing  to  say" — more  difficult 
by  far  for  American  to  say  nothing,  when  there  is  so  much  to  be  said. 

Note.  For  information  on  the  love  of  frogs  the  reader  may  purchase 
Margaret  Sanger's  book,  which  will  help  boost  the  Birth  Control  Movement, 
aiming  to  suppress  the  only  indulgence  of  frogs. 

58  The    Little    Review 

Thomas    V au ghan 
by  Mary  Butts 

I  MUST  apologize  to  Mr.  Foster  Damon  for  my  neglect  to 
answer  his  letter  in  the  April  number  on  my  review  of  the 
works  of  Thomas  Vaughan  which  appeared  in  March,  but  1 
have  been  out  of  England  for  some  months,  and  only  lately  received 
my  copies. 

I  found  in  Vaughan's  works  (to  whose  study  I  had  come  with 
great  anticipation)  a  vice  which  seems  inherent  in  so  much  mystical 
writing  and  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  contemporary  fashions 
of  expression  or  fears  of  censorship,  but  which  comes  from  a  want 
of  quality  in  the  intelligence.  Significant  expressions  of  truth  are 
clear  in  statement,  they  are  not  misleading,  vague,  or  tiresome.  This 
clarity  is  the  common  factor  in  science,  contemplation,  and  art.  The 
first  chapter  out  of  St.  John's  gospel,  and  the  "Origin  of  Species" 
are  linked  by  it.  When  one  considers  the  nature  of  the  mystic's 
research  is  it  too  much  to  demand  the  same  precision? 

Professional  mystics  however  will  have  their  mysticism  a  mystery, 
one  result  of  which  is  that  the  "uninitiate"  gives  it  up,  the  man  in 
some  stage  of  "initiation"  knows  enough  to  resent  the  half  deception. 
As  to  the  fear  of  persecution  which  Mr.  Damon  thinks  might 
influence  Vaughan's  successors  today — I  can  only  say  that  as  good 
men  as  he  have  faced  it,  and  that  any  profound  knowledge  of  reality 
usually  makes  its  possessor  not  only  confident,  and  indifferent  to  its 
results  in  the  world,  but  capable  of  stating  it  under  an  adequate 

I  defy  any  one  who  reads  Vaughan  not  to  be  reminded  of  the 
penny  worth  of  bread  and  the  intolerable  deal  of  sack. 

JVilliam  Carlos  JVilliams^  ^^ Kara  in  HelF^ 
by  Else  von  Freytag-Loringheven 

(See  page  59) 

The    Little    Review  59 

The  following  five  pages  were  originally  given 
over  to  a  very  interesting  review  of  William  Carlos 
Williams's  new  book,  "Kore  in  Hell",  by  Else  von 
Freytaf-Loringhoven.  The  article,  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  pieces  of  critism  that  has  ever  come  to  us 
was  neverthelees  marred  for  me,  by  certain  redun- 
dancies of  thinking  that  destroyed  the  power  and 
piquancy  of  the  whole.  With  great  skill  (or  so  I 
thought)  my  editorial  insight  accomplised  the  neces- 
sary revisions.  But  the  author  disagreed  with  me 
so  violently  that  we  agreed  to  omit  the  article  un- 
til next  month,  when  it  will  appear  in  its  original 

The  policy  of  the  Little  Review  has  alwaya 
been  :  a  free  stage  for  the  artist.  There  are 
moments  when  I  believe  this  to  be  an  uninteresting 
policy. — M.  C.  A. 

60  The    Little    keviev) 

A  Note  on  Minns 
by  Hart  Crane 

An  ignorance  of  the  professional,  technical  "elements"  of  photog- 
raphy, it  seems  to  me,  should  very  slightly,  if  at  all,  invalidate  one's 
claim  to  the  appreciation  of  such  work  as  that  of  H.  W.  Minns.  In 
his  case,  my  appreciation  can  begin  only  where  the  fundamental  peda- 
gogics of  the  camera  leave  off, — at  the  point  where  the  craftsman 
merges  into  the  artist, — where  the  creative  element  becomes  distinct. 
Some  combination  of  eye  and  sympathy  and  hand  are  subtly  respon- 
sible for  the  quality  in  his  work.  His  "arrangements"  are  not  the 
empty,  obvious  contortions  of  so  many  modern  photographers.  He 
plainly  could  not  content  himself  with  that.  There  is,  in  his  faces, 
the  urge  of  an  ethical  curiosity  and  sympathy  as  strongly  evident 
as  in  the  novels  of  Henry  James.  Undoubtedly  his  portraits  are 
deeper,  more  vivid,  than  the  daily  repetitions  of  his  sitters  in  their 
mirrors  give  back  to  any  but  themselves,  but  this  is  only  to  mention 
again  the  creative  element  that  gives  to  his  portraits  such  a  sense  of 
drmatic  revelations. 

Mr.  Minns  has  often  exhibited  in  Europe,  and  has  received 
extensive  recognition  at  Dresden,  Vienna,  and  Copenhagen  exhibi- 
tions. He  began  taking  pictures  when  he  was  considerably  beyond 
thirty,  and  has  since  spent  some  twenty  years  working  in  the  rather 
limited  and  unresponsive  locality  of  Akron,  Ohio. 




64  The    Little    Review 


The  LiiiXe  Review  has  secured  a 
remarkable  novel  by  Mary  Butts, 
"Ashe  of  Rings,"  which  will  begin 
serially  in  the  January  number. 

Other  Books 
by  John  Rodker 

Poemes  Juifs.  Andre  Spire.  Edition  of  L'Ev entail. 


THESE  hard,  matter  of  fact  poems,  so  real,  so  jewishly  real, 
so  unlike  M.  Aragon's  poetical  poems,  have  one  hundred  per 
cent  efficiency  and  are  terrible  in  their  strength.  For  the 
jew  who  has  suffered,  who  finds  that  despite  his  age-old  instincts  he 
has  neverthless  assimilated  himself  to  the  nation  of  his  adoption — must 
live  in  it  scorning  its  excesses ;  unable  to  comprehend  them  or  their 
devotion  to  a  heaven  and  hell  and  mean  self  interest, — what  fate 
could  be  harder,  what  exile  more  intorlerable  ? 

The  jew  lies  like  a  rye  grain  buried  in  fat  and  bursting  wheat 
ears.    For  a  time  as  he  sees  how  completely  he  has  swallowed  the 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  65 

habits  of  the  wheat  ear,  its  exquisite  intonations,  its  passion  to  get  out- 
side itself  in  a  wild  pursuit  of  objets-d'arts,  he  may  even  persuade 
himself  that  he  is  "one  of  them."  Yet  always  he  must  see  himself 
eventually  nameless,   an  eternal   Schlemihl. 

This  is  the  burden  of  M.  Spire's  book.  This  static  body  in 
the  midst  of  flux,  a  static  body  that  would  like  to  flow  too  but 

"Je  venais  de  mon  rude  pays  de  sel,  d'oolithe,  de  fer 
ou  la  riviere  empoissonnee  de  soude"     *    *    * 

If  you  think  "art  is  the  whole  caboose"  you  will  find  these  poems 
artless.  But  I  think  of  M.  Spire  as  a  very  good  poet  with  a  capacity 
for  feeling;  for  suffering  which  would  have  done  credit  to  Walt 

La  Connaissance,  Paris,  2  fr,  50,  June  and  July 

BOTH  numbers  contain  a  series  of  letters  by  Stendhal  dated 
1873.   The  July  number  has  an  amusing  study  "Alba  ou  les 
parturitions  d'une  jeune  malthusienne."    For  the  rest  it  is 
a  very  well  informed  little  journal  with  quite  the  best  sentiments. 

THE  Dial  for  August  has  an  appalling,  an  abominable,  an  in- 
conceivable "London"  letter  from  Mr.   Shanks  full  of  the 
damnation  of  faint  praise  which  begins:  "It  is  told  that  the 
late  Mr.  Joseph  Chamberlain"     .     .     . 

Its  translations  from  Rimbaud  though  unsigned  are  superb.     I 
would  give  much  to  know  who  was  responsible  for  them : 


In  the  wood  is  a  bird,  its  song  stops  you  and  makes  you  blush. 

There  is  a  clock  which  does  not  strike. 

There  is  a  gully  with  a  nest  of  white  animals. 

There  is  a  cathedral  that  descends  and  z,  lake  that  climbs. 

66  T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Re  V  i  ew 

There  is  a  little  carriage,  abandoned  in  the  shrubbery,  or  that  comes 

down  the  path,  running,  beribboned. 
There  is  a  troop  of  little  comedians  in  costume,  seen  in  the  road  across 
liOi,£;.;i  ■  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
Finally,  when  you  are  hungry  and  thirsty,  there  is  somebody  who 

chases  you  away. 

Mr.  Hueffer  is  entertaining  on  the  subject  of  the  ungenuous- 
ness  of  Mr.  Wells. 

Feu  dejoie,     Louis  Aragon.     Au  Sam  Pareil.    3  fr.  50. 


"^HESE  remarkably  mature  poems  by  a  prominent  Dadaiste 
are  eminently  reasonable,  so  much  so  that  this  book  seems 
to  me  quite  the  most  interesting  contemporary  French  work 
I  have  seen.  Poetry — dead  in  France  since  Verlaine  (dead  then  you 
may  perhaps  say),  with  only  the  exception  of  Apollinaire  and  de 
Gourmont — appears  to  be  looking  up.  Certainly  "Soifs  de  I'ouest" 
is  astonishingly  good.  Part  metrically  and  part  in  its  subject  matter 
this  poem  is  interestingly  like  Mr.  Eliot's  preludes, 

"Dans  ce  bar  dont  la  porte  ' 

Sans  cesse  bat  au  vent 

une  affiche  ecarlate  h 

Vante  un  autre  savon 
^    Dansez  dansez  ma  chere 

nous  avons  des  banjos. 
Oh  p 

qui  me  donnera  seulement  a  macher 
les  chewing-gums  inutiles 
qui  parfument  tres  doucement 
I'haleine  des  filles  des  villes 

Epices  dans  I'alcool  mesure  par  les  pailles 

et  menthes  sans  raison  barbouillant  les  liqueur.^ 

The    Little     Review  67 

il  est  des  amours  sans  douceurs 
dans  les  docks  sans  poissons  ou  la  barmaid 
"Pour  demain"  is  a  most  charming  poem.    Many  influences  are 
of  course  discernible  in  his  work : — Corbiere,  Rimbaud,  ApoUinaire, 
Baudelaire,  but  this  is  as  it  should  be  since  M.  Aragon  is  young,  and 
the  important  thing  is  that  it  should  have  been  a  natural  task  that  led 
him  to  them.    Nobody  ever  claimed  a  corner  in  ideas. 

"Secousse"  is  a  good  poem.   "Vie  de  Jean  Baptiste  A"  has  these 
impressive  lines: 

La  premier  arrive  au  fond  du  corridor 
123456789     10    MORT 
une  ombre  au  milieu  du  soleil  dort  c'est  I'oeil 

From  images  like     "Tu  gardes  Failure! 
Du    papier   glace 


"Mais  le  voix  Non 
Sur  un  ton  de  lave 

it  is  obvious  that  we  are  here  in  contact  with  a  very  good  mind  indeed. 
"Lever"  is  a  long  poem,  perhaps  not  altogether  sustained,  but  suffi- 
ciently important  to  induce  one  to  await  M.  Aragon's  future  work 
with  anxiety. 

''The  City  Curious''  by  yean  de  Bosschere, 
Heineman  12-6 

THIS  sinister  litle  story  and  its  equally  sinister  decorations  is 
another  of  those  books  for  children  which  grown-ups  buy 
for  their  own  delectation.  Yet  an  imaginative  child  will  like 
this  somewhat  ornate  story  of  a  people  composed  of  slabs  of  cake  and 
whose  aliment  is  entirely  jams  and  syrups.     Unlike  Alice  in  Won- 

^-  1 

68  T  he    Lit  tie    Review 

derland,  which  is  eminently  reasonable  if  a  little  extravagant,  this 
story  has  no  roots  in  reality.  It  is  certainly  not  the  behaviour  of 
one's  grown-ups  gone  suddenly  good. 

At  any  rate  M.  de  Bosschere  makes  his  curious  vision  absorb- 
ingly interesting  and  one  rushes  through  the  book  for  the  denoue- 
ment as  in  a  detective  story. 

"The  Despoiler,  who  was  always  afraid  that  Some  One  would 
find  out  that  he  was  only  made  of  Cardboard,  never  slept  in  public," 
is  the  most  extraordinary  of  these  characters  and  the  drawing  of  the 
despoiler  asleep  in  a  tall  attic  with  a  blanket  nailed  across  the  win- 
dows is  terrifying.  M.  de  Bosschere  is  certainly  the  most  accom- 
plished artist  engaged  in  illustrating  books,  and  his  special  sense  of  the 
decorative  quality  of  black  and  white  and  his  purity  of  line  are  a 
great  pleasure.  The  colour  reproductions  are  rather  dirty  and  give 
but  a  vague  idea  of  the  gaiety  of  his  colour  and  his  delicious  sense  of 


The  Sackbut,''  London,  Monthly  10s.  Nos  1-5 

THE  Sackbut  is  an  addition  to  London's  musical  papers — if  they 
exist ;  and  we  welcome  the  asperity  of  its  opinions  and  the 
violence  of  its  correspondence.  It  is  trying  to  do  for  music 
what  the  Little  Review  does  for  literature,  and  boosts  chiefly  Bernard 
van  Dieren,  Kaikoshru  Sorabji,  and  in  passing  Delius.  Its  recent 
passage  with  Mr.  Ernest  Newman  was  a  model  of  this  kind  of  thing, 
though  Mr.  Gray  would  have  been  less  amusing  had  he  not  quoted 
in  every  line  of  his  truly  ponderous  onslaughts  enough  great  names  ta 
supply  the  whole  of  the  Comtist  calendar. 

The  Sackbut's  literature  is  supplied  by  Robert  Nichols  and 
Mr.  Arthur  Symons,  whom  we  are  surprised  to  find  is  still  writing. 
The  results  can  be  imagined.  The  text  of  the  Sackbut  is  enlivened 
by  actual  examples  of  its  musical  standards,  and  the  series  of  con- 
certs which  it  intends  to  give  in  order  to  bring  its  readers  up  to  the 
editorial  mark  promises  to  be  interesting. 

F  -I 

The     Little     Review  69 

Essen  tial  s 
by  Robert  McAlmon 

ASK  "jh"  too  whether  one  must  be  "strange,"  "compelling," 
"original"  at  all  costs,  or  whether  it  is  well  to  be  these  only 
when  you  mark  an  advance,  or  at  least  grant  value  equal 
to  the  "old."  There  is  a  disease  "modern  traditionalism"  that  has 
little  to  do  with  art,  or  life.  A  "modern"  who  counts,  is  surprisingly 
like  a  "classic"  in  scope  of  comprehension,  and  neither  of  them  deal 
with  the  dry  chaff  of  words,  manner,  and  form,  until  they  have  some 
content  in  which  they  themselves  have  faith  to  put  into  form,  via 
words  and  manner. 

Art  is  essential?  If  life  is.  You  can  take  your  pick  of  which  is 
the  bigger  thing — life,  art,  religion,  science.  If  art  is  essential,  it  is  so 
because  of  the  live  significance  of  it.  A  James  Branch  Cabell,  Anatole 
France,  type  of  erudition-wrought  writing,  with  rejuggled  philoso- 
phies and  theories  that  come  from  reading  rather  than  from  contact, 
physical  and  mentally  perceptive,  is  deadly,  but  it  does  have  some 
degree  of  "understanding"  within  it.  A  D.  H.  Lawrence  sullen  bull 
intensity  without  the  clarity  of  intelligence,  or  the  area,  is  rather 
bad  too.  But  both  these  mentioned  things  are  "genuine"  to  the  con- 
viction of  their  producers.  One  of  them  believes  in  life  through 
literature;  the  other  believes  in  the  white  incandescence  of  the  lumi- 
nous spore-like  germ,  or  some  such  thing.  Tell  me,  will  you,  how 
many  of  your  lesser  contributors  have  that  much  genuine  quality? 

An  artist's  prime  occupation  is  with  life.  Art  is  his  outlet.  One 
does  not  become  an  artist  by  going  into  the  arts.  One  has  some  per- 
ception, some  interpretation,  some  essential  record  that  one  must 
leave.  What  has  Djuna  Barnes,  or  Bodenheim,  or  Malcolm  Cowley, 
or  Witter  Bynner,  Ben  Hecht,  Mark  Turbyfill,  and  a  few  others 
to  leave?  Omit  their  names  from  their  work, — all  that  any  of  them 
has  ever  done,  compiled  in  a  book, — and  who  would  recognize  it 
as  theirs?  They  produce  neither  conscious,  accidental,  nor  perverse 
art.  Cowley,  and  the  poor  overdone  family  cat,  slur  at  re- 
spectability, the  tenacles  of  houses; — if  these  things  meant  something 
to  him  more  than  a  mannerism,  aped  from  some  artist  who  has  made 

70  The    Little    Review 

them  a  part  of  a  whole,  their  over-usage  by  "moderns"  would  not 
matter.  It  is  deemed  essential  to  be  subtly  satirical  over  respecta- 
bility, over  repressed  sexuality,  over  many  things  called  "modern." 
Sterne,  Rabelais— innumerable  ancients  did  it  better  than  the  pseudos^ 

A  piece  of  writing  should  be  criticised  upon  its  own  basis,  but 
few  of  the  mentioned  people  give  their  writing  any  basis  of  its  own. 
They  swim  under  a  sea  of  influences — Rodker,  doing  the  Rimbaud 
thing  fifty  years  too  late,  and  he  many  years  too  old  to  put  "belief" 
into  it.  Men  such  as  Pound,  with  crisp  minds  worshipping  at  the 
shrine  of  LaForgue  and  Rimbaud,  who  were  simply  precocious  ex- 
amples of  the  "malaise  de  la  jeunesse"  and  interesting  or  ingrati- 
ating for  that  reason  rather  than  for  art.  Art  deals  with  life.  Form 
is  something  to  worry  about  for  the  artist,  but  not  the  other  fellow's 
form.  Joyce  is  not  "modern"  in  form,  but  "Joyce."  Followers  on  are 
procreating  mechanics.  The  impact  of  experience,  environment,  real- 
ized perception — not  literary-gained  knowledge — and  a  will  to  say 
something  about  it  produces  literature,  which  is  valuable  if  the  pro- 
ducer finds  his  own  form, — valuable  both  for  perception,  and  for  form. 
What  the  artist  needs  first  is  the  faith  of  his  own  ego,  and  the  convic- 
tion of  its  knowing,  and  feeling,  so  that  into  form  he  can  put  some 
quivering  protoplasm  that  men  of  comprehension  can  look  at  and 
not  card  index. 

Freud  speaks  of  the  "sexual  impulse."  Is  there  such  a  thing! 
A  voluptuous  impulse,  yes,  which  desires  not  contact  with  another 
sex,  but  satisfaction,  and  which  consequently  seeks  for  it  at  many 
destinations  en  route  to  the  marriage  bed  which  all  good  Christians 
declare  is  the  ultimate.  And  the  roots  of  the  voluptuous  impulse  are 
a  desire  for  a  justification — an  art,  a  religion,  a  love,  a  science — and 
there  is  no  justification  but  an  individual's  faith  in  his  own  ego, — 
his  vision  of  the  universe  as  himself  transcended  and  multiplied,  with 
his  ego  a  thing  he  can  be  quite  detached  and  abstract  about, — a  shrine 
before  which  he  can  call  nations,  politicians,  gods  and  undertakers, 
and  say  "worship."   But  if  he  doesn't  worship  himself  what  boots  it? 

I  haven't  form;  neither  have  I  an  aped  structure.  Christ  knows 
I'm  no  artist — perhaps  en  route.  I  don't  know,  can't  care,  must 
write  any  way,  nothing  else  I  want  to  do  and  I  have  energy  and  con- 
ceptions.   Every  now  and  then  in  some  little  thing  I  achieve  "form." 

The    Little    Review  71 

Then  somehow  I'm  satisfied,  and  don't  care  about  sending  it  in — 
both  because  I  know  it  to  be  complete,  and  because  I  know  it  is  a 
lesser  "form"  that  doesn't  indicate  much  to  me. 

Do  you  know  any  "modern"  critic,  you  "jh,"  Eliot,  or  anybody 
else  who  would  be  capable  of  writing  in  the  abstract  a  philosophy  of 
art  of  comprehension  comparable  to  Taine's,  or  of  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont's,  with  "modern"  understanding, — O  yes  indeed,  but  we  must 
insist,  with  equal  scope, — however  different  the  texture.  Or  do  we 
know  much  about  even  our  individual  philosophies  of  art  today. 
Doesn't  the  Little  Review  "chance  it"  frequently  on, — say  on  some 
simple  being — such  as  the  man  who  wrote  the  bloody  spittle  in  the 
bowl  story,  for  instance?  Pourquoi  moi,  I  am  agnostic.  I  know  of 
only  two  writers  in  whom  I  can  believe — of  course  I  make  no  strin- 
gent effort  to  "keep  up" — but  Hardy,  and  Joyce,  with  Conrad  and 
Hudson,  at  least  know  what  they  want  to  do.  Hardy  has  a  convic- 
tion in  some  kind  of  unity  of  futility  in  existence ;  Joyce  has  insight 
into  people.  Conrad  I  have  read  but  slightly,  and  Hudson — I  don't 
know.  I  liked  his  "Purple  Land"  and  "Green  Mansions" — well  he's 
had  space  enough.    I've  nothing  to  say  about  him. 

The  million  things  I  say  are  attempts  at  location.  You  declare 
you  have  yours.  I  ask  questions  to  ascertain  your  conviction.  I 
only  know  one  person  who  has  his  "location"  and  it  isn't  mine.  I 
don't  write  to  write,  but  because  I  hate,  or  adore,  or  don't  know  what 
to  do  about  life  to  such  an  extent  that  I  can't  end  it,  unsolved.  The 
whole  damned  process  is  a  frame-up — you're  caught  going  and  com- 
ing, and  at  both  ends,  for  every  realized  impulse. 

Hasn't  the  race  been  "civilized,"  such  as  the  word  has  come  to 
mean,  for  enough  generations,  for  it  to  be  rather  absurd  to  talk  about 
"primal"  impulses,  and  want  to  go  back  to  the  primitive,  naive,  child- 
mind  form  sort  of  thing?  Isn't  a  complex  man,  emotionally,  spiri- 
tually, intellectually,  quite  a  "natural"  manifestation.  There  have 
been  so  many  of  them  from  bible  times  on  down? 

72  The    Little    Review 

The    Russian    Dadaists 
by  L,  Lozowick 

AMERICA  has  its  Else  von  Freytag  Loringhoven,  France  its 
Tristan  Tzara,  anJ  Russia  its  Alexander  Krutchenich. 
The  Russian  Dadaists — or,  as  they  call  themselves,  Ego- 
Futurists,  Cubo-Futurists,  etc., — have  been  writing  longer  than  their 
analogues  in  America  and  France. 

And  they  are  tremendously  serious.     They  spin  elaborate  theo- 
ries.    They  lambast  the  opposition.    They  are  aggressively  immodest. 
"I,  Igor  Severianin — Genius." 

Here  is  a  "great  dramatic  poem"  by  Vasili  Gniedov,  written  in 
a  language  of  his  own  creation.     I  translate  it  faithfully: 









Zavivai  Zavivapronosoiyaiyainemo 


Stoyispognetzalyejoot'nasay — chdoo 



They  are  contemptuous  of  language  as  a  means  to  communicate 
ideas.  For  their  self  expression  they  want  to  create  a  medium  en- 
dowed with  color,  taste,  sound. 

Here  is  a  poem  of  Alexander  Krutchenich,  the  most  formidable 
theorist  of  the  new  movement.  The  poem  is,  in  his  own  opinion, 
greater  than  all  of  Pushkin. 

dir  boor  shtchill 

The     Little     Review  73 

vi  so  boo 
Krutchenich  has  written  a  series  of  critical  articles  on  the  litera- 
ture of  Russia.     It  is  an  amazing  collection.     His  keen  analysis  and 
withering  satire  are  inimitable.     From  Pushkin  to  Dostoevsky,  from 
Tolstoy  to  Sologub,  all  popular  idols  are  brought  before  the  seat  of 
judgment,  subjected  to  a  rigorous  cross-examination,  and  ruthlessly 
condemned  to  the  block. 

A  bit  of  admonition  from  his  pen: 

"Cast  Pushkin,  Dostoevsky,  Tolstoy,  etc.,  from  the  ship  of  the 
Present  and  let  them  not  contaminate  the  air!" 

I  wonder  how  many  Pushkins  and  Tolstoys  of  other  lands  should 
be  made  to  join  the  Russians  in  the  happy  consummation? 

jE  .   Ro h ert  S c hmi tz 

by  Margaret  Anderson 

R.  SCHMITZ'  playing  of  the  piano  is  probably  the  most 
interesting  to  be  heard  in  America  today, — scientifically  the 
most  interesting.  This  is  not  to  disparage  its  extremely 
musical  content  (one  never  hears  Debussy,  for  instance,  played  with 
more  "fulness"  or  colour)  ;  but  Mr.  Schmitz's  experiments  in  sound, 
in  a  very  specialized  modern  technique,  engage  one's  intellectual  in- 
terest to  a  point  that  overshadows  other  aspects.  Only  a  deep  per- 
sonal magic  in  the  performer  prevents  this  overshadowing,  and  this 
Mr.  Schmitz  does  not  possess.  Harold  Bauer,  who  commands  a 
lesser  range  of  tonal  possibilities  than  Mr.  Schmitz,  holds  his  audience 
with  a  surer  spell.  It  is  entirely  a  matter  of  personal  capacity — of 
how  particularly  one  sees  life  and  how  consciously  one  can  record  the 
particularity.  I  am  not  interested  in  any  of  the  conventional  criticism 
of  Mr.  Schmitz.  Why  should  a  man  who  plays  the  music  of  his 
own  generation  be  classified  as  "modern,"  and  the  question  of  his 
possible  inefficiency  in  regard  to  the  "old  masters"  be  discussed  from 
one  end  of  the  foolish  country  to  another?  Such  criticism  is  as  point- 
less as  the  praise  given  to  a  man  like  Richard  Buhlig, — who  plays 
with  no  significance  because  he  plays  with  none  of  the  vibrations  of 

74  TheLittleReview 

his  own  age.  Mr.  Schmitz  plays  Bach  and  Beethoven  and 
Chopin  with  as  much  distinction  and  resourcefulness  as  he  plays  Ravel 
and  Debussy.     All  a  man  can  play  is — himself. 

Mr.  Schmitz  will  give  another  recital  in  Aeolian  Hall  on  De- 
cember 17, 

Marguerite    D'Alvare^ 
by  Margaret  Anderson 

IN  talking  of  Marguerite  D'Alvarez  one  must  talk  much  of 
personal  magic.  Mme.  D'Alvarez  is  just  beginning  a  series 
of  concerts  in  this  country  that  will  undoubtedly  establish 
her  as  one  of  the  greatest  contraltos  of  the  age — a  reputation  she 
already  enjoys  in  London  and  other  parts  of  the  world.  Of  course 
Americans  are  most  skeptical,  at  first,  of  personal  magic.  It  took 
them  years  to  acclaim  Mary  Garden.  And,  once  acclaimed,  their 
recognition  is  as  nauseating  as  their  failure  to  recognize.  They 
never  recognize  essential  quality.  I  really  much  prefer  to  hear  them 
saying  that  Mary  Garden  "can't  sing,"  that  she  is  a  conceited  freak, 
a  blatant  showman,  than  to  hear  them  saying  that  she  is  a  wonderful 
actress  who  gives  them  the  sensation  of  "shooting  up  and  down  in  an 

Mme.  D'Alvarez  is  a  great  artist.  She  not  only  has  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  voices  in  the  world ;  she  has  an  intellect  which  is 
preoccupied  with  discovering  and  creating  new  beauty  rather  than, 
like  most  singers,  satisfied  with  reproducing  that  already  stated.  The 
artist  in  a  man  very  often  finds  the  man  a  discordant  environment, 
and  expression  is  thereby  tainted  and  limited.  But  the  artist  in  Mme. 
D'Alvarez  finds  in  the  woman  a  rich,  established,  cultural  environ- 
ment, both  of  race  and  of  personal  civilization.  This  combination 
doesn't  produce  a  democratic  art;  it  produces  a  splendour  and  lavish- 
ness  which  at  the  same  time  remain  imperial  and  formal. 

Her  first  recital  of  the  season  will  be  given  in  Aeolian  Hall  on 
November  30.  There  will  be  a  second  one  in  January,  and  others 
still  unannounced. 



by  Arthur  JVinthrop 

TAKING  his  usual  morning  walk  after  a  hearty  breakfast, 
Anthony    Brewer    knew    himself    a    fortunate   man.     He 
walked  idly,  leisurely  soaking  up  the  sunlight,  the  crisp 
wind,  the  bitter  smell  of  privet;  his  eye  delighted  with 
their  sombre  greens  and  bright  patches  of  viridian. 
The  outlines  of  the  houses  reminded  him  of  the  village  where 
his  boyhood  was  spent;  the  low  eaves  jostled  staid  Georgian  exteriors. 
One  house  was  called   "The  Antlers" ;   it  had  a  skull  and   antlers 
over  the  lintel. 

The  broad  opulent  privet  hedges  pleased  him  most.  It  was  on 
one  of  these  he  saw  the  piece  of  string  which  was  to  be  his  ruin.  It 
was  plaited,  and  for  some  minutes  intimation  of  terror  made  him 
contemplate  it.  This  in  itself  he  felt  was  remarkable  since  he  was 
of  strong  will  and  decided  action.  Then  concluding  that  to  be  so 
undecided  was  more  than  childish  he  picked  it  up. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  there  woke  in  him  an  impersonal 
feeling  of  inimical  forces.  From  very  far  down  in  his  memory  the 
association  "plaited  string"  said  "Be  careful."  He  remembered  then 
quite  simply  and  without  effort  that  in  certain  places  it  was  custo- 
mary to  untie  every  knot  in  the  house  in  order  to  facilitate  child- 

He  felt  that  he  was  on  the  tack  but  had  not  quite  got  what  he 
wanted.  Then  he  remembered  that  string  was  often  plaited  as  a 
charm :  an  incantation  was  made  over  it  and  the  string  thrown  away. 
The  curse  would  then  alight  on  whoever  untied  the  knot.  He  was 
faintly  amused.  It  was  a  sparkling  autumn  morning.  He  had  only  to  be 
aware  of  the  exhilaration  of  blood  racing  in  his  body  to  feel  how 
absurd  was  all  superstition.  Automatically  and  with  only  a  faint 
reluctance  he  pulled  out  the  string.  Immediately  it  stuck  fast.  He 
tried  the  other  end  with  the  same  result.    Again  it  unravelled  for  a 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  77 

moment  and  stuck  fast.  He  carefully  undid  the  knot,  saying  to  him- 
self, "throw  it  away,  you've  still  time,"  but  all  the  time  his  fingers 
were  working  away  at  it.  Suddenly  the  string  was  unravelled  and 
hung  from  his  finger.  He  said  to  himself,  "You've  done  it  now," 
and  felt  oppressed.  . 

The  morning  had  lost  its  headiness  and  he  walked  back  quietly. 
He  thought  of  childbed — that  was  impossible.  A  hideous  and  ob- 
scene thought  flashed  then  through  his  brain — some  victim  of  in- 
somnia. Some  unfortunate  who  lived  in  anguished  anticipation  of  a 
night  which  would  bring  no  relief.  That  night  which  though  all  the 
world  found  repose  must  be  for  him  a  continual  grinding  of  his 
brain  about  his  life's  follies,  asburdities,  crimes.  Was  this  the  curse 
then  that  Brewer  had  brought  upon  himself? — of  all  curses  the  most 
terrible.  Those  occasional  nights  when  he  could  not  sleep  had  been 
more  full  of  terror  for  him  than  anything  in  his  life.  How  he  had 
tossed  from  side  to  side,  hugged  his  pillow  in  agony,  with  what 
tears  and  good  resolutions  waited  for  the  dawn.  And  now  when- 
ever he  feared  he  might  not  sleep  it  took  him  hours  to  drop  off. 
Already  he  saw  a  sleepless  night.  The  morning  seemed  suddenly  cold. 
He  hurried  home. 

His  wife,  all  atremble,  met  him  on  the  doorstep.  A  strange  cat 
had  got  into  the  cellar.  It  had  stared  at  her  with  fierce  yellow  eyes. 
Now  it  would  not  move.  The  inspector  had  called  to  see  the  meter 
and  the  cat  had  leapt  at  him.  The  inspector  had  been  cross  and 
scolded  her  for  not  telling  him.  Perhaps  it  had  rabies.  She  had 
heard  of  such  things. 

Brewer  began  to  feel  he  was  seeing  prodigies — lions  in  the  street, 
headless  ghosts,  blood  dripping  from  the  sky.  He  was  sure  now  that 
he  had  released  some  principle  of  evil. 

His  brother-in-law  came  to  dinner  and  smoked  all  the  cigarettes 
and  seized  the  best  arm  chair.  This  always  happened,  but  tonight  it 
appeared  to  have  a  malign  intention. 

Feeling  she  must  get  the  matter  over,  his  wife,  as  they  undressed, 
confessed  that  the  strange  cat  had  so  upset  the  maid  that  his  Spode 
tureen  was  smashed  beyond  hope  of  rivetting.  This  convinced 
him  that  he  had  adopted  another's  curse. 

From  this  day  he  went  into  a  decline.    He  became  superstitious. 

78  T  h  e    L  i  t  tl  e    Re  V  i  ew 

He  carefully  avoided  the  joints  of  paving  stones,  always  went  once 
round  every  lamppost,  and  before  putting  down  any  object  ran  his 
finger  round  the  circumference  seven  times. 

Every  annoyance  was  put  down  to  that  unfortunate  morning.  Fi- 
nally two  bills  could  not  arrive  by  the  same  post  without  upsetting 
him  beyond  all  measure. 

His  back  bent,  his  fingers  grew  corpse  cold,  and  long  pale  hairs 
grew  on  the  joints,  the  hair  of  his  head  fell  out.  Life  was  too 
much  for  him. 

Garden  Abstract 

by  Hart  Crane 

THE  apple  on  its  bough  is  her  desire — 
Shining  suspension,  mimic  of  the  sun. 
The  bough  has  caught  her  breath  up,  and  her  voice. 
Dumbly  articulate  in  the  slant  and  rise 
Of  branch  on  branch  above  her,  blurs  her  eyes. 
She  is  prisoner  of  the  tree  and  its  green  fingers. 

And  so  she  comes  to  dream  herself  the  tree. 

The  wind  possessing  her — weaving  her  young  veins, 

Holding  her  to  the  sky  and  its  quick  blue. 

Drowning  the  fever  of  her  hands  in  sunlight. 

She  has  no  memory,  nor  fear,  nor  hope 

Beyond  the  grass  and  shadows  at  her  feet, 


by  Carlo  Linati 

To  Ezra  Pound 

Voire  dine  est  un  paysage  choisi  ' 

Que  vout  charrnants  masques  et  bergamasques   .    .    . 
I  ;  — Paul   Verlaine. 

HOW  tenderly,  that  April  morning,  we  looked  at  the  little 
maid  who  knelt  in  the  sun,  planting  a  small  primrose 
garden,  that  she  sprinkled  with  water  of  the  Brembo! 
The  sunlight  was  so   clear   among  the   poplar  trees 
whose   buds  spread   heavy   wine  smell.     A   big  washer- 
woman was  bustling  about.     The  rustic  limbs  delineated  themselves 
upon  the  green  so  majestically  that  you  whispered:  "The  spirit  of 
Titian  is  wandering  in  the  air." 

Venetian  suavity  and  lombradic  vigour.  Bergamasque !  The 
carpaccesco  portico  of  the  farmhouse,  harlequinesque  women,  the 
broken  line  of  the  hills  and  the  golden  light  scattered  upon  the 
landscape,  dreaming  in  the  dawn  and  so  silent. 

But  you,  fantastic  creature,  sought  the  bank-side.     You  would 
be  pleased   to  discover  a  bank  to   this  beautiful   river   upon  whicli 
you  could  run  in  some  airy  dance,  in  sight  of  the  turbulent  stream, 
like  a  child  to  kiss  from  time  to  time! 
We  reached,  at  last,  the  canal. 

You  sat  upon  the  parapet;  I,  undressed,  threw  myself  into  the 

Plunged  in  the  heart  of  the  waters  that  leapt  down  from  the 
mills  and  factories  of  the  mountain  above,  I  felt  the  energy  of  my 
country  becoming  spirit  and  flesh  in  my  heart.  Supine,  I  sang  an 
old  lombard  song,  stirring  up  the  rocky  echoes:  then  swam  along  the 
bank  with  a  fellow  snake,  like  some  primordial  triton. 

80  T  h  e     Little     Review 

I  got  up  and  came  toward  you  (you  so  frightened!)  and  we 
took  our  lunch  together,  the  swallows  flying  over  us. 

The  evening  took  us  by  surprise  in  Bergamo  Alta.  Along  the 
lanes  the  tinkers  were  finishing  the  friezes  upon  their  pails,  and  the 
old  women  folded  up  in  their  shawls,  hurried  to  the  red-lit  altars. 
What  a  good  charcuterie  smell  walked  about  for  all  the  Borgo! 
Antique-dealers  sat  down  drowsily  on  the  threshold  of  the  shops:  stout 
men  with  galgaresque  faces  sat  by  the  inn  windows  playing  at  cards, 
brawling,  drinking,  with  oaths. 

How  agreeable  to  stroll  about  among  the  lanes  behind  the 
Duomo.  Quiet  luminous  orchards,  carved  portals,  mocking  masques 
upon  the  arches  of  the  windows.  But,  arriving  at  the  walls  of  Santa 
Grata,  how  beautiful  the  lombard  plain,  its  rich  immensity,  and, 
below,  the  flaring  scintillation  of  the  river,  delicate  scimitar  lying 
across  the  land. 


by  yames  yoyce 

Episode  XIV 

DESHIL  Holies  Eamus,  Deshil  Holies  Eamus,  Deshil 
Holies  Eamus.  Send  us,  bright  one,  light  one,  Hor- 
horn,  quickening  and  wombfruit.  Send  us,  bright  one 
light  one,  Horhorn,  quickening  and  wombfruit.  Send 
us  bright  one  light  one,  Horhorn,  quickening  and 

Hoopsa,  boyaboy,  hoopsa!  Hoopsa,  boyaboy,  hoopsa!  Hoopsa, 
boyaboy,  hoopsa! 

Universally  that  person's  acumen  is  esteemed  very  little  percep- 
tive concerning  whatsoever  matters  are  being  held  as  most  profitably 
by  mortals  with  sapience  endowed  to  be  studied  who  is  ignorant  of 
that  which  the  most  in  doctrine  erudite  and  certainly  by  reason  of 
that  in  them  high  mind's  ornament  deserving  of  veneration  constantly 
maintain  when  by  general  consent  they  affirm  that  other  circumstances 
being  equal  by  no  exterior  splendour  is  the  prosperity  of  a  nation 
more  efficaciously  asserted  than  by  the  measure  of  how  far  forward 
may  have  progressed  the  tribute  of  its  solicitude  for  that  proliferent 
continuance  which  of  evils  the  original  if  it  be  absent  when  fortu- 
nately present  constitutes  the  certain  sign  of  omnipoUent  nature's  in- 
corrupted  benediction.  For  who  is  there  who  anything  of  some  sig- 
nificance has  apprehended  but  is  conscious  that  that  exterior  splendour 
may  be  the  surface  of  a  downward  tending  lutulent  reality  or  on  the 
contrary  anyone  so  is  there  inilluminated  as  not  to  perceive  that  as  no 
nature's  boon  can  contend  against  the  county  of  increase  so  it  behooves 
every  most  just  citizen  to  become  the  exhortator  and  admonisher  of 
his  semblables  and  to  tremble  lest  what  had  in  the  past  been  by  the 
nation  excellently  commenced  might  be  in  the  future  not  with  similar 
excellence  accomplished  if  an  invercund  habit  shall  have  gradually 
traduced  the  honourable  by  ancestors  transmitted  cu§toms  to  that 

82  T  he     Little     Review 

thither  of  profundity  that  that  one  was  audacious  excessively  who 
would  have  the  hardihood  to  rise  affirming  that  no  more  odious  offence 
can  for  anyone  be  than  to  oblivious  neglect  to  consign  that  evangel 
simultaneously  command  and  promise  which  on  all  mortals  with  pro- 
phecy of  abundance  or  with  diminution's  menace  that  exalted  of  reit- 
eratedly  procreating  function  ever  irrevocably  enjoined? 

It  is  not  why  therefore  we  shall  wonder  if,  as  the  best  historians 
relate,  among  the  Celts,  who  nothing  that  was  not  in  its  nature  admir- 
able admired  the  art  of  medicine  shall  have  been  highly  honored.  Not 
to  speak  of  hostels,  leperyards,  sweating  chambers,  plaguegraves,  their 
greatest  doctors,  the  O'Shiels,  the  O'Hickeys,  the  O'Lees,  have  sedu- 
lously set  down  the  divers  methods  by  which  the  sick  and  the  relapsed 
found  again  health  whether  the  malady  had  been  the  trembling  with- 
ering or  loose  boyconnell  flux.  Certainly  in  every  public  work  which 
in  it  anything  of  gravity  contains  preparation  should  be  with  import- 
ance commensurate  and  therefore  a  plan  was  by  them  adopted 
(whether  by  having  preconsidered  or  as  the  maturation  of  experience 
it  is  difficult  in  being  said  which  the  discrepant  opinions  of  subsequent 
inquirers  are  not  up  to  the  present  congrued  to  render  manifest) 
whereby  maternity  was  so  far  from  accident  possibility  removed  that 
whatever  care  the  patient  in  that  allhardest  of  woman  hour  chiefly 
required  and  not  solely  for  the  copiously  opulent  but  also  for  her  who 
not  being  sufficiently  moneyed  scarcely  and  often  not  even  scarcely 
could  subsist  valiantly  and  for  an  inconsiderable  emolument  was  pro- 

To  her  nothing  already  then  and  thenceforward  was  anyway  able 
to  be  molestful  for  this  chiefly  felt  all  citizens  except  with  proliferent 
mothers  prosperity  at  all  not  to  can  be,  and  as  they  had  received 
eternity  gods  mortals  generation  to  bent  them  her  beholding,  when  the 
case  was  so  having  itself,  parturient  in  vehicle  thereward  carrying 
desire  immense  among  all  one  another  was  impelling  on  of  her  to  be 
received  into  that  domicile.  O  thing  of  prudent  nation  not  merely  in 
being  seen  but  also  even  in  being  related  worthy  of  being  praised 
that  they  her  by  ancipation  went  seeing  mother,  that  she  by  them 
suddenly  to  be  about  to  be  cherished  had  been  begun  she  felt! 

Before  born  babe  bliss  had.  Within  womb  won  he  worship. 
Whatever  in  that  one  case  done  comrnodiously  done  was.     A  couch 

The     Little     Review  83 

by  midwives  attended  with  wholesome  food  reposeful  cleanest 
swaddles  as  though  forthbringing  were  now  done  and  by  wise  fore- 
sight set:  but  to  this  no  less  of  what  drugs  there  is  need  and  surgical 
implements  which  are  pertaining  to  her  case  not  omitting  aspect  of 
all  very  distracting  spectacles  in  various  latitudes  by  our  terrestrial 
orb  offered  together  with  images,  divine  and  human,  the  cogitation 
of  which  by  sejunct  females  is  to  tumescence  conducive  or  eases  issue 
in  the  high  sunbright  wellbuilt  fair  home  of  mothers  when,  osten- 
sibly far  gone  and  reproductitive,  it  is  come  by  her  thereto  to  lie  in, 
her  term  up. 

Some  man  that  wayfaring  was  stood  by  housedoor  at  night's 
oncoming.  Of  Israel's  folk  was  that  man  that  on  earth  wandering 
far  had  fared.  Stark  ruth  of  man  his  errand  that  him  lone  led  till 
that  house. 

Of  that  house  A.  Home  is  lord.  Seventy  beds  keeps  he  there 
teeming  mothers  are  wont  that  they  lie  for  to  thole  and  bring  forth 
bairns  hale  so  God's  angel  to  Mary  quoth.  Watchers  they  there  walk, 
white  sisters  in  ward  sleepless.  Smarts  they  still  sickness  soothing: 
in  twelve  moon  thrice  an  hundred.  Truest  bedthanes  they  twain  are, 
for  Home  holding  wariest  ward. 

In  ward  wary  the  watcher  hearing  come  that  man  mild-hearted 
eft  rising  with  swire  ywimpled  to  him  her  gate  wide  undid.  Lo, 
levin  leaping  lightens  in  eyebling  Ireland's  westward  welkin!  Full 
she  dread  that  God  the  Wreaker  all  mankind  would  fordo  with  water 
for  his  evil  sins.  Christ's  rood  made  she  on  breastbone  and  him 
drew  that  he  would  rather  infare  under  her  thatch.  That  man  her 
will  wotting  worthful  went  in   Home's  house. 

Loth  to  irk  in  Home's  hall  hat  holding  the  seeker  stood.  On 
her  stow  he  ere  was  living  with  dear  wife  and  lovesome  daughter 
that  then  over  land  and  seafloor  nine  years  had  long  outwandered. 
Once  her  in  townhithe  meeting  he  to  her  bow  had  not  doffed.  Her 
to  forgive  now  he  craved  with  good  ground  of  her  allowed  that  that 
of  him  swiftseen  face,  hers,  so  young  then  had  looked.  Light  swift 
her  eyes  kindled,  bloom  of  blushes  his  word  winning. 

As  her  eyes  then  ongot  his  weeds  swart  therefor  sorrov?''  she 
feared.  Glad  after  she  was  that  ere  adread  was.  Her  he  asked  if 
O'Hare  Doctor  tidings  sent  from  far  coast  and  she  with  grameful 

84  T  he     Little     Review 

sigh  him  answered  that  O'Hare  Doctor  in  heaven  was.  Sad  was  the 
man  that  word  to  hear  that  him  so  heavied  in  bowels  ruthful.  All  she 
there  told  him,  ruing  death  for  friend  so  young,  algate  sore  unwilling 
God's  rightwiseness  to  withsay.  She  said  that  he  had  a  fair  sweet 
death  through  God  His  goodness  with  masspriest  to  be  shriven,  holy 
housel  and  sick  men's  oil  to  his  limbs.  The  man  then  right  earnest  asked 
the  nun  of  which  death  the  dead  man  was  died  and  the  nun  answered 
him  and  said  that  he  was  died  in  Mona  island  through  bellycrab  three 
year  agone  come  Yule  and  she  prayed  to  God  the  AUruthful  to  have 
his  dear  soul  in  his  undeathliness.  He  heard  her  sad  words,  in  held 
hat  sad  staring.  So  stood  they  there  both  av/hile  in  wanhope,  sorrow- 
ing one  with  other. 

Therefore,  everyman,  look  to  that  last  end  that  is  thy  death  and 
the  dust  that  gripeth  on  every  man  that  is  born  of  woman  for  as  he 
came  naked  forth  of  his  mother's  womb  so  naked  shall  he  wend  him  at 
the  last  for  to  go  as  he  came. 

The  man  that  was  come  into  the  house  then  spoke  to  the  nursing- 
woman  and  he  asked  her  how  it  fared  with  the  woman  that  lay 
there  in  childbed.  The  nursingwoman  answered  him  and  said  that 
that  woman  was  in  throes  now  full  three  days  and  that  it  would  be 
a  hard  birth  unneth  to  bear  but  that  now  in  a  little  it  would  be.  She 
said  that  she  had  seen  many  births  of  women  but  never  was 
none  so  hard  as  was  that  woman's  birth.  Then  she  set  it  forth  all 
to  him  that  time  was  had  lived  high  that  house.  The  man  heark- 
ened to  her  words  for  he  felt  with  wonder  women's  woe  in  the 
travail  that  they  have  of  motherhood  and  he  wondered  to  look  on 
her  face  that  was  a  young  face  for  any  man  to  see  but  yet  was  she 
left  after  long  years  a  handmaid.  Nine  twelve  bloodflows  chiding 
her  childless. 

And  whiles  they  spake  the  door  of  the  castle  was  opened  and 
there  nighed  them  a  mickle  noise  as  of  many  that  sat  there  at  meat. 
And  there  came  against  the  place  as  they  stood  a  young  learning 
knight  yclept  Dixon.  And  the  traveller  Leopold  was  couth  to  him 
sithen  it  had  happed  that  they  had  ado  each  with  other  in  the  house 
of  misericord  where  this  learning  knight  lay  by  cause  the  traveller 
Leopold  came  there  to  be  healed  for  he  was  sore  wounded  in  his 
breast  by  a  spear  wherewith  a  horrible,  and  dre.adful  dragon  wa§ 

The     Little     Review  85 

smitten  him  for  which  he  did  to  make  a  salve  of  volatile  salt  and 
chrism  as  much  as  he  might  suffice.  And  he  said  now  that  he  should 
go  mto  that  castle  for  to  make  merry  with  them  that  were  there.  And 
the  traveller  Leopold  said  that  he  should  go  otherwhither  for  he  was 
a  man  of  cautels  and  a  subtle.  Also  the  lady  was  of  his  avis  and 
repreved  the  learning  knight  though  she  trowed  well  that  the 
traveller  had  said  thing  that  was  false  for  his  subtility.  But  the 
learning  knight  would  not  hear  say  nay  nor  do  her  mandement  he 
have  him  in  aught  contrarious  to  his  list  and  he  said  how  it  was  a 
marvelous  castle.  And  the  traveller  Leopold  went  into  the  castle 
for  to  rest  him  for  a  space  being  sore  of  limb  after  many  marches 
environing  in  divers  lands  and  sometime  venery. 

And  in  the  castle  was  set  a  board  that  was  of  the  birchwood  of 
Finlandy  and  it  was  upheld  by  four  dwarfmen  of  that  country  but 
they  durst  not  move  more  for  enchantment.  And  on  this  board  were 
frightful  swords  and  knives  that  are  made  in  a  great  cavern  by 
swinking  demons  out  of  white  flames  that  they  fix  in  the  horns  of 
buffalos  and  stags  that  there  abound  marvellously.  And  there  were 
vessels  that  are  wrought  by  magic  out  of  seasand  and  the  air  by  a 
warlock  with  his  breath  that  he  blares  into  them  like  to  bubbles. 
And  full  fair  cheer  and  rich  was  on  the  board  that  no  wight  could 
devise  a  fuller  ne  richer.  And  there  was  a  vat  of  silver  that  was 
moved  by  craft  to  open  in  the  which  lay  strange  fishes  withouten 
heads  though  misbelieving  men  nie  that  this  be  possible  thing  with- 
out they  see  it  natheless  they  are  so.  And  these  fishes  lie  in  an  oily 
water  brought  there  from  Portugal  land  because  of  the  fatness  that 
therein  is  like  to  the  juices  of  the  olive  press.  And  also  it  was  a 
marvel  to  see  in  that  castle  how  by  magic  they  make  a  compost 
out  of  fecund  wheat  kidneys  out  of  Chaldee  that  by  aid  of  certain 
angy  spirits  that  they  do  into  it  swells  up  wondrously  like  to  a  vast 
mountain.  And  they  teach  the  serpents  there  to  entwine  themselves 
up  on  long  sticks  out  of  the  ground  and  of  the  scales  of  these  serpents 
they  brew  out  a  brewage  like  to  mead. 

And  the  learning  knight  let  pour  for  the  traveller  a  draught 
and  halp  thereto  the  while  all  they  that  were  there  drank  every  each. 
And  the  traveller  Leopold  did  up  his  beaver  for  to  pleasure  him  and 
took  apertly  somewhat  in  amity  for  he  never  drank  no  manner  of 

86  The     Little     Review 

mead  and  anon  full  privily  he  voided  the  more  part  in  his  neighbour 
glass  and  his  neighbour  nist  not  of  his  wile.  And  he  sat  down  m 
that  castle  with  them  for  to  rest  him  there  awhile  Thanked  be 
Almighty  God. 

This  meanwhile  this  good  sister  stood  by  the  door  and  begged 
them  at  the  reverence  of  Jesu  our  alther  liege  Lord  to  leave  their 
wassailing  for  there  was  above  one  quick  with  child  a  gentle  dame, 
whose  time  hied  fast.  Sir  Leopold  heard  on  the  upfloor  cry  on  high 
and  he  wondered  what  cry  that  it  was  whether  of  child  or  woman 
and  I  marvel,  said  he,  that  it  be  not  come  or  now.  Meseems  it  dureth 
overlong.  And  he  was  ware  and  saw  a  franklin  that  bight  Lenehan 
an  that  side  the  table  that  was  older  than  any  of  the  tother  and  for 
that  they  both  were  knights  virtuous  in  the  one  emprise  and  eke  by 
cause  that  he  was  elder  he  spoke  to  him  full  gently.  But,  said  he, 
or  it  be  long  too  she  will  bring  forth  by  God  His  bounty  and  have 
joy  for  she  hath  waited  marvellous  long.  And  the  franklin  that  had 
drunken  said.  Expecting  each  moment  to  be  her  next.  Also  he  took 
the  cup  that  stood  tofore  him  for  him  needed  never  done  asking  nor 
desiring  of  him  to  drink  and,  Now  drink,  said  he,  fully  delectably, 
and  he  quaffed  as  far  as  he  might  to  their  both's  health  for  he 
was  a  passing  good  man  of  his  lustiness.  And  Sir  Leopold  that  was 
the  goodliest  guest  that  ever  sat  in  scholar's  hall  and  that  was  the 
meekest  man  and  the  kindest  that  ever  laid  husbandly  hand  under 
hen  and  that  was  the  very  knight  of  the  world  one  that  ever  did 
minion  service  to  lady  gentle  pledged  him  courtly  in  the  cup.  Woman's 
woe  with  wonder  pondering. 

Now  let  us  speak  of  that  fellowship  that  was  there  to  the  intent 
to  be  drunken  an  they  might.  There  was  a  sort  of  scholars  along 
either  side  the  board,  that  is  to  wit,  Dixon  yclept  junior  of  Saint 
Mary  Merciable's  with  other  his  fellows  Lynch  and  Madden., 
scholars  of  medicine,  and  the  franklin  that  hight  Lenehan  and  one 
from  Alba  Longa,  one  Crotthers,  and  young  Stephen  that  had  mien 
of  a  frere  that  was  at  head  of  the  board  and  Costello  that  men 
clepen  Punch  Costello  all  long  of  a  mastery  of  him  erewhile  gested 
(and  of  all  them,  reserved  young  Stephen,  he  was  the  most  drunken 
that  demanded  still  of  more  mead)  and  beside  the  meek  Sir  Leopold. 
But  on  young  Malachi  they  waited  for  that  he  promised  to  have  come 

The     Little     Review  87 

and  such  as  intended  to  no  goodness  said  how  he  had  broke  his  avow. 
And  Sir  Leopold  sat  with  them  for  he  bore  fast  friendship  to  Sir 
Simon  and  to  this  his  son  young  Stephen  and  for  that  his  langour 
becalmed  him  there  after  longest  wanderings  insomuch  as  they 
feasted  him  for  that  time  in  the  honourablest  manner.  Ruth  red 
him,  love  led  on  with  will  to  wander,  loth  to  leave. 

For  they  were  right  witty  scholars.  And  he  heard  their  aresouns 
each  gen  other  as  touching  birth  and  righteousness,  young  Madden 
maintaining  that  put  such  case  it  were  heard  the  wife  to  die  (for  so 
it  had  fallen  out  a  matter  of  some  year  agone  with  a  woman  of 
Eblana  in  Home's  house  that  now  was  trepassed  out  of  this  world 
and  the  self  night  next  before  her  death  all  leeches  and  pothecaries 
had  taken  counsel  of  her  case).  And  they  said  farther  she  should  live 
because  in  the  beginning  they  said  the  woman  should  bring  forth  in 
pain  and  wherefore  they  that  were  of  this  imagination  affirmed  how 
young  Madden  had  said  truth  for  he  had  conscience  to  let  her  die. 
And  not  few  and  of  these  was  young  Lynch  were  in  doubt  that  the 
world  was  now  right  evil  governed  as  it  was  never  other  howbeit 
the  mean  people  believed  it  otherwise  but  the  law  nor  his  judges  did 
provide  no  remedy.  This  was  scant  said  but  all  cried  with  one  acclaim 
the  wife  should  live  and  the  babe  to  die.  And  they  waxed  hot  upon 
that  head  what  with  argument  and  what  for  their  drinking  but  the 
franklin  Lenehan  was  prompt  to  pour  them  ale  so  that  at  the  least 
way  mirth  might  not  lack.  Then  young  Madden  showed  all  the 
whole  affair  and  when  he  said  how  that  she  was  dead  and  how  for 
holy  religion  sake  her  goodman  husband  would  not  let  her  death 
whereby  they  were  all  wondrous  grieved.  To  whom  young  Stephen 
had  these  words  following,  Murmur,  sirs,  is  eke  oft  among  lay  folk. 
Both  babe  and  parent  now  glorify  their  Maker,  the  one  in  limbo 
gloom,  the  other  in  purge  fire.  But  what  of  those  Godpossibled  souls 
that  we  nightly  impossibilise  ?  For,  sirs,  he  said,  our  lust  is  brief. 
We  are  means  to  those  small  creatures  within  us  and  nature  has 
other  ends  than  we.  Then  said  Dixon  junior  to  Punch  Costello 
wist  he  what  ends.  But  he  had  overmuch  drunken  and  the  best 
word  he  could  have  of  him  was  that  he  would  ever  dishonest  a  woman 
whoso  she  were  or  wife  or  maid  or  leman  if  it  so  fortuned  him  to  be 
delivered  of  his  spleen  of  lustihead.     Whereas  Crotthers  of  Alba 

The     Little     Review 

Longa  sang  young  Malachi's  praise  of  that  beast  the  unicorn  how 
once  in  the  millennium  he  cometh  by  his  horn  the  other  all  this  while 
pricked'  forward  with  their  jibes  wherew^ith  they  did  malice  him, 
witnessing  all  and  several  by  Saint  Cuculus  his  engines  that  he  was 
able  to  do  any  manner  of  thing  that  lay  in  man  to  do.  There  at 
laughed  they  all  right  jocundly  only  young  Stephen  and  sir  Leopold 
which  never  durst  laugh  too  open  by  reason  of  a  strange  humour 
w^hich  he  would  not  betray  and  also  for  that  he  rued  for  her  that  bare 
whoso  she  might  be  or  wheresoever.  Then  spoke  young  Stephen 
orgulous  of  mother  Church  that  would  cast  him  out  of  her  bosom, 
of  law  of  canons,  of  bigness  wrought  by  wind  of  seeds  of  brightness 
or  by  potency  of  vampires  mouth  to  mouth  or,  as  Virgilius  saith,  by 
the  influence  of  the  Occident  or  peradventure  in  her  bath  according 
to  the  opinions  of  Averroes  and  Moses  Maimonides.  He  siid  also 
how  at  the  end  of  the  second  month  a  human  soul  was  infused  and 
how  in  all  our  holy  mother  foldeth  ever  souls  for  God's  greater  glory 
whereas  that  earthly  mother  which  was  but  a  dam  to  bring  forth 
beastly  should  die  by  canon  for  so  saith  he  that  holdeth  the  fisherman's 
seal,  even  that  blessed  Peter  on  which  rock  was  holy  church  for  all 
ages  founded.  All  they  bachelors  then  asked  of  sir  Leopold  would 
he  in  like  case  so  jeopard  her  person  as  risk  life  to  save  life.  A 
wariness  of  mind  he  would  answer  as  fitted  all  and,  laying  hand  to 
jaw,  he  said  dissembling  that  as  it  was  informed  him  and  agreeing 
also  with  his  experience  of  so  seldom  seen  an  accident  it  was  good 
for  that  Mother  Church  belike  at  one  blow  had  birth  and  death  pence 
and  in  such  sort  deliverly  he  scaped  their  questions.  That  is  truth, 
said  Dixon,  and,  or  I  err,  a  pregnant  word:  Which  hearing  young 
Stephen  was  a  marvellous  glad  man  and  he  averred  that  he  who 
stealeth  from  the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord  for  he  was  of  a  wild  man- 
ner when  he  was  drunken  and  that  he  was  now  in  that  taking  it 
appeared  eftsoons. 

But  sir  Leopold  was  passing  grave  maugre  his  word  by 
cause  he  still  had  pity  of  the  terror  causing  shrieking  of  shrill  women 
in  their  labour  and  as  he  was  minded  of  his  good  lady  Marion  that 
had  borne  him  an  only  manchild  which  on  his  eleventh  day  on  live 
had  died  and  no  man  of  art  could  save  so  dark  is  destiny.     And  she 

T  h  e     Lit  t  le     Review  89 

was  wondrous  stricken  of  heart  for  that  evil  hap  and  for  his  burial 
did  him  on  a  fair  corselet  of  lamb's  wool,  the  flower  of  the  flock, 
lest  he  might  perish  utterly  and  lie  akeled  (for  it  was  then  about 
the  midst  of  the  winter)  and  now  sir  Leopold  that  had  of  his  body 
no  manchild  for  an  heir  looked  upon  him  his  friend's  son  and  was 
shut  up  in  sorrow  for  his  forepassed  happiness  and  as  sad  as  he  was 
that  him  failed  a  son  of  such  gentle  courage  (for  all  accounted  him 
of  real  parts)  so  grieved  he  also  in  no  less  measure  for  young  Stephen 
for  that  he  lived  riotously  with  those  wastrels  and  murdered  his 
goods  with  whores. 

About  that  present  time  young  Stephen  filled  all  cups  that  stood 
empty  so  as  there  remained  but  little  if  the  prudenter  had  not  shad- 
owed their  approach  from  him  that  still  plied  it  very  busily  who, 
praying  for  the  intentions  of  the  sovereign  pontiff,  he  gave  them  for 
a  pledge  the  vicar  of  Christ  which  also  as  he  said  is  vicar  of  Bray. 
Now  drink  we,  quod  he,  of  this  mazer  and  quaft  ye  this  mead  which 
is  not  indeed  parcel  of  my  body  but  my  soul's  bodiment.  Leave  ye 
fraction  of  bread  to  them  that  live  by  bread  alone.  Be  not  afeard 
neither  for  any  want  for  this  will  comfort  more  than  the  other  will 
dismay.  See  ye  here.  And  he  showed  them  glistering  coins  of  the 
tribute  and  goldsmiths'  notes  the  worth  of  two  pound  nineteen  shil- 
lings that  he  had  he  said  for  a  song  which  he  writ.  They  all  admired 
to  see  the  foresaid  riches  in  such  dearth  of  money  as  was  herebefore. 
His  words  were  then  these  as  followeth :  Know  all  men,  he  said, 
time's  ruins  build  eternity's  mansions.  What  means  this?  Desire's 
wind  blasts  the  thorntree  but  after  it  becomes  from  a  bramblebush 
to  be  a  rose  upon  the  rood  of  time.  Mark  me  now.  In  woman's 
womb  word  is  made  flesh  but  in  the  spirit  of  the  maker  all  flesh  that 
passes  becomes  the  word  that  shall  not  pass  away.  This  is  the  post- 
creation.  Ovinis  caro  ad  te  veniet.  No  question  but  her  name  is 
puissant  who  aventried  the  dear  course  of  our  Agenbuyer,  Healer  and 
Herd,  our  mighty  mother  and  mother  most  venerable  and  Bernardus 
saith  aptly  that  she  hath  an  omnipitentiani  deiparae  suppUcem,  that  is 
to  wit,  an  almightiness  of  petition  because  she  is  the  second  Eve  and 
she  won  us,  saith  Augustine  too,  whereas  that  other,  our  grandam, 
which  we  are  linked  up  with  by  successive  anastomosis  of  navelcords 
sold  us  by  all  lock,  stock  and  barrel  for  a  penny  pippin.     But  here  is 

90  The     Little     Review 

the  matter  now.  Or  she  knew  him,  that  second  I  say,  and  was  but 
creature  of  her  creature,  vergine  rnadre  figlia  di  tuo  figlio  or  she  knew 
him  not  and  then  stands  she  in  the  one  denial  or  ignorancy  with  Peter 
Piscator  who  lives  in  the  house  that  Jack  built  and  with  Joseph  the 
Joiner  patron  of  the  happy  demise  of  all  unhappy  marriages  parceque 
M.  Leo  Taxil  nous  a  dit  que  qui  I'avait  rnise  dans  cette  fichue  position 
c'etait  le  sacre  pigeon,  ventre  de  Dieu!  Entweder  transsubstantiality 
oder  consubstantiality  but  in  no  case  subsubstantiality.  And  all  cried 
out  upon  it  for  a  very  scurvy  word.  A  pregnancy  without  joy,  he  said, 
a  birth  without  pangs,  a  body  without  belmish,  a  belly  without  big- 
ness. Let  the  lewd  with  faith  and  fervour  worship.  With  will  will 
we  withstand,  withsay. 

Hereupon  Punch  Costello  dinged  with  his  fist  upon  the  board 
and  would  sing  a  bawdy  catch  Staboo  Stabella  about  a  wench  that 
was  put  in  pod  of  a  jolly  swashbuckler  in  Almany  which  he  did  now 
attack:  The  first  three  months  she  was  not  well,  Staboo,  when  here 
nurse  Quigley  from  the  door  angerly  bid  them  hist  ye  should  shame 
you  nor  was  it  meet  as  she  remembered  them  being  her  mind  was  to 
have  all  orderly  against  lord  Andrew  came  as  she  was  jealous  that  no 
turmoil  might  shorten  the  honour  of  her  guard.  It  was  an  ancient 
and  a  sad  matron  of  a  sedate  look  and  christian  walking,  in  habit 
dun  beseming  her  megrins  and  wrinkled  visage,  nor  did  her  hortative 
want  of  it  effect  for  incontinently  Punch  Costello  was  of  them  all 
embraided  and  they  reclaimed  him  with  civil  rudeness  some  and  with 
menace  of  blandishments  others  whiles  all  chode  with  him,  a  murrain 
seize  the  dolt,  what  a  devil  he  would  be  at,  thou  chuff,  thou  puny, 
thou  got  in  the  peasestraw,  thou  chitterling,  thou  dykedropt,  thou 
abortion  thou,  to  shut  up  his  drunken  drool  out  of  that  like  a  curse 
of  God  ape,  the  good  sir  Leopold  that  had  for  his  cognisance  the  flower 
of  quietmargerain  gentle,  advising  also  the  time's  occasion  as  most 
sacred  and  most  worthy  to  be  most  sacred.  In  Home's  house  rest 
should  reign. 

To  be  short  this  passage  was  scarce  by  when  Master  Dixon  of 
Mary's  in  Eccles,  goodly  grinning,  asked  young  Stephen  what  was 
the  reason  why  he  had  not  cided  to  take  friar's  vows  and  he  answered 
him  obedience  in  the  womb,  chastity  in  the  tomb  but  involuntary 

The     Little     Re  vie  IV  91 

poverty  all  his  days.  Master  Lenehan  at  this  made  return  that  he  had 
heard  of  those  nefarious  deeds  and  how,  as  he  heard  hereof  counted, 
he  had  besmirched  the  lily  virtue  of  a  confiding  female  which  was 
corruption  of  minors  and  they  all  intershowed  it  too,  waxing  merry 
and  toasting  to  his  fathership.  But  he  said  very  entirely  it  was  clean 
contrary  to  their  suppose  for  he  was  the  eternal  son  and  ever  virgin. 
Thereat  mirth  grew  in  them  the  more  and  they  rehearsed  to  him  his 
curious  rite  of  wedlock  for  the  disrobing  and  deflowering  of  spouses, 
she  to  be  in  guise  of  white  and  saffron,  her  groom  in  white  and  grain, 
with  burning  of  nard  and  tapers,  on  a  bridebed  while  clerks  sung 
kyries  and  the  anthem  Ut  novetur  sexus  omnis  corporis  mysteriiim 
till  she  was  there  unmaided.  He  gave  them  then  a  much  admirable 
hymen  minim  by  those  delicate  poets  Master  John  Fletcher  and 
Master  Francis  Beaumont  that  is  in  their  Maid's  Tragedy  that  was 
writ  for  a  like  twining  of  lovers:  To  bed,  to  bed,  was  the  burden  of 
it  to  be  played  with  accompanable  concent  upon  the  virginals.  Well 
met  they  were,  said  Master  Dixon,  but,  harkee,  better  were  they 
named  Beau  Mont  and  Lecher  for,  by  my  troth,  of  such  a  mingling 
much  might  come.  Young  Stephen  said  indeed  to  his  best  remem- 
brance they  had  but  the  one  doxy  between  them  and  she  of  the 
stews  to  make  shift  with  in  delights  amorous  for  life  ran  very  high 
in  those  days  and  the  custom  of  the  country  approved  with  it.  Greater 
love  than  this,  he  said,  no  man  hath  that  a  man  lay  down  his  wife 
for  his  friend.  Go  thou  and  do  likewise.  Thus,  or  words  to  that 
efiEect,  saith  Zarathustra,  sometime  regious  professor  of  French  letters 
to  the  university  of  Oxtail  nor  breathed  there  ever  that  man  to  whom 
mankind  was  more  beholden.  Bring  a  stranger  within  thy  tower 
it  will  go  hard  but  thou  wilt  have  the  secondbest  bed.  Orate,  fratres, 
pro  memetipso.  And  all  the  people  shall  say.  Amen.  Remember, 
Erin,  thy  generations  and  they  days  of  old,  how  thou  settedst  little  by 
me  and  by  my  word  and  broughtest  in  a  stranger  to  my  gates  to 
commit  fornication  in  my  sight  and  to  wax  fat  and  kick  like  Jeshurum. 
Therefore  hast  thou  sinned  against  the  light  and  hast  made  me,  thy 
lord  to  be  the  slave  of  servants.  Return,  return.  Clan  Milly:  forget 
me  not,  O  Milesian.  Why  hast  thou  done  this  abomination  before 
me  that  thou  didst  spurn  me  for  a  merchant  of  jalap  and  didst  deny 

92  The     Little     Review 

me  to  the  Roman  and  the  Indian  of  dark  speech  with  whom  thy 
daughters  did  lie  luxuriously?  Look  forth  now,  my  people,  upon 
the  land  of  behest,  even  from  Horeb  and  from  Nebo  and  from 
Pisgah  and  from  the  Horns  of  Hatten  unto  a  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  money.  But  thou  hast  suckled  me  with  a  bitter  milk:  my  moon 
and  my  sun  thou  hast  quenched  for  ever.  And  thou  hast  left  me 
alone  for  ever  in  the  dark  ways  of  my  bitterness:  and  with  a  kiss  of 
ashes  hast  thou  kissed  my  mouth.  This  tenebrosity  of  the  interior, 
he  proceeded  to  say  hath  not  been  illumined  by  the  wit  of  the  septua- 
gint  nor  as  much  as  mentioned  for  the  Orient  from  on  high.  Which 
brake  hell's  gates  visited  a  darkness  that  was  foraneous.  Assuefac- 
tion  minorates  atrocities  and  Hamlet  his  father  showeth  the  prince 
no  blister  of  combustion.  The  adiaphane  in  the  moon  of  life  is  an 
Egypt's  plague  which  in  the  nights  of  prenativity  and  postmortemity 
is  their  most  proper  ubi  and  quomodo.  And  as  the  ends  and  ultimates 
of  all  things  accords  in  some  mean  and  measure  with  their  inceptions 
and  originals,  that  same  multiplicit  concordance  which  leads  forth 
growth  from  birth  accomplishing  by  a  retrogressive  metamorphosis 
that  minishing  and  ablation  towards  the  final  which  is  agreeable  unto 
nature  so  is  it  with  our  subsolar  being.  The  aged  sisters  draw  us  into 
life:  we  wail,  batten,  sport,  slip,  clasp,  sunder,  dwindle,  die:  over  us 
dead  they  bend.  First  saved  from  water  of  old  Nile,  among  bulrushes, 
a  bed  of  fasciated  wattles;  at  last  the  cavity  of  a  mountain,  an 
occulted  sepulchre  amid  the  conclamation  of  the  hillcat  and  the  ossi- 
frage.  And  as  no  man  knows  the  ubicity  of  his  tumulus  nor  to  what 
processes  we  shall  thereby  be  ushered  nor  whether  to  Tophet  or  to 
Edenville  in  the  like  way  is  all  hidden  when  we  would  backward  see 
from  what  region  of  remoteness  the  whatness  of  our  whoness  hath 
fetched  his  whenceness. 

{to  be  continued) 

The  Reader  Critic 

Overheard  at  an  Amy  Lowell  Lecture 

"Amy  Lowell  has  the  drummer  method  of  letting  you  in  on  poetry, 
hasn't  she?  I  haven't  ever  written  any,  but  now  I've  heard  her  I  think  I 
shall.  ...  If  she  didn't  have  so  much  ease,  there  would  still  be  ease 
enough,  wouldn't  there?" 

A  Champion 

Of  course  you  see  the  Dial?  Why  in  the  name  of  literature  do  they 
start  a  magazine  at  this  date  and  follow  directly  in  your  footsteps?  Can't 
they  do  any  pioneering  of  their  own  ?  I  have  followed  your  progress  for 
the  past  five  years  and  I  am  very  loyal  to  your  little  journal.  This  loyalty 
may  prejudice  me  to  the  extent  of  considering  the  Dial's  policy  a  literary 

[Yes,  we  have  had  this  called  to  our  attention  many  times.  The  Dial's 
contents  page  often  reads  like  our  letter-head;  but  we  don't  mind,  and  they 
seem  to  like  it.  There  is  room  in  America  for  any  number  of  efforts  of  this 
kind.  And  it  is  especially  fitting,  now  that  we  have  prohibition,  to  have  a 
de-alcoholized  version  of  the  Little  Revieiv. — ;7/.] 

The  World  Moves 
{from  the  London  'Times) 

In  some  such  fashion  as  this  do  we  seek  to  define  the  element  which 
distinguishes  the  work  of  several  young  writers,  among  whom  Mr.  James 
Joyce  is  the  most  notable,  from  that  of  their  predecessors.  It  attempts  to 
come  closer  to  life,  and  to  preserve  more  sincerely  and  exactly  what  in- 
terests and  moves  them  by  discarding  most  of  the  conventions  which  are 
commonly  observed  by  the  novelists.  Let  us  record  the  atoms  as  they  fall 
upon  the  mind  in  the  order  in  which  they  fall,  let  us  trace  the  pattern,  how- 
ever disconnected  and  incoherent  in  appearance,  which  each  sight  or  incident 
scores  upon  the  consciousness.  Let  us  not  take  it  for  granted  that  life 
exists  more   in   what  is   commonly  thought  big  than   in   what   is   commonly 

94  The     Little     Review 

thought  small.     Any  one   who  has  read   "The   Portrait  of  the   Artist   as   a 
Young  Man"  or  what  promises  to  be  a  far  more  interesting  work,  "Ulysses," 
now   appearaing  in  the  Little   Review,   will   have   hazarded   some   theory   of 
this  nature  as  to  Mr.  Joyce's  intention.     On  our  part  it  is  hazarded  rather 
than   affirmed;    but   whatever   the   exact   intention   there   can   be   no   question 
but  that  it  is  of  the  utmost  sincerity  and  that  the  result,  difficult  or  unpleasant 
as  we  may  judge  it,  is  undeniably  distinct.     In  contrast  to  those  whom  we 
have   called   materialists   Mr.   Joyce    is   spiritual;    concerned    at    all   costs   to 
reveal  the  flickerings  of  that  inermost  flame  which  flashes   its  myriad  mes- 
sages   through    the    brain,    he    disregards    with    complete    courage    whatever 
seems  to  him  adventitious,  though  it  be  probability  or  coherence  or  any  other 
of  the  handrails  to  which  we  cling  for  support  when  we   set  our  imagina- 
tions free.     Faced,  as  in  the  Cemetery  scene,  by  so  much  that,  in  its  restless 
scintillations,  in  its  irrelevance,  its  flashes  of  deep  significance  succeeded  by 
incoherent    inanities,    seems    to    be    life    itself,    we    have    to    fumble    rather 
awkwardly  if  we  want  to  say  what  else  we  wish;  and  for  what  reason  a 
work    of    such    originality    yet    fails    to    compare,    for    we    must    take    high 
examples,    with    "Youth"    or    "Jude    the    O'bscure."     It    fails,    one    might    say 
simply,  because  of  the  comparative  poverty  of  the  writer's  mind.     But  it  is 
possible   to   press    a    little   further    and    wonder   whether   we    may   not    refer 
our  sense  of  being  in  a  bright  and  yet  somehow  strictly  confined  apartment 
rather    than    at   large    beneath   the    sky   to    some    limitation    imposed    by   the 
method  as  well  as  by  the  mind.     Is  it  due  to  the  method  that  we  feel  neither 
jovial  nor  magnanimous,  but  centred  in  a  self  which  in  spite  of  its  tremor 
of    susceptibility   never    reaches    out   or    embraces    or    comprehends    what    Is 
outside    and    beyond?      Does    the'  emphasis    laid    perhaps    didactically    upon 
indecency  contribute   to   this   efi^ect   of   the    angular    and    isloated?     Or    is    it 
merely  that  in  any  effort  of  such  courage  the  faults  as  well   as  the  virtues 
are  left  naked  to  the  view?     In   any  case  we  need   not  attribute  too  much 
importance    to   the    method.      Any   method    is    right,    every   method    is    right, 
that  expresses  what  we  wish  to  express.     This  one  has  the  merit  of  giving 
closer  shape  to  what  we  were  prepared  to  call  life  itself;  did  not  the  reading 
of   "Ulysses"   suggest  how   much   of   life   is   excluded   and    ignored,    and   did 
it    not    come    with    a    shock    to    open    "Tristram    Shandy"    and    even    "Pen- 
dennis,"    and   be   by   them   convinced   that   there    are   other    aspects   of   life, 
and   larger   ones   into  the   bargain? 

*'One  of  the  Really  Notable  Contributions  to  the  English  Liter- 
ature of  the  last  three  centuries".  Theodore  Dreiser 



Price  .  .  $2.00 

Limited  Edition  de  Luxe     $5.00 


This  novel  is  a  true  epic  of  present  day  life  sketched 
on  a  broad  canvas,  written  with  a  deep  understand- 
ing of  life.  $2.50 


Frank  Swinnerton  writes:  "Fotterism"  will  be  read 
all  over  England  with  enjoyment  by  Potterites  will 
recognize  only  the  foibles  of  their  familiars,  and  not 
their  own  greedy  folly.  Nobody  will  be  wounded 
by  it.  Subtly  flattering,  it  will  confirm  us  in  our 
Potterish  self-esteem.  How  clever  we  are  to  see 
the  faults  of  others  when  they  are  so  clearly  and 
and  wittily  dissected  by  Miss  Macaulay!"  $2.00 

Eight  new  titles  in  The  Modern  Library 


]05  WEST  40th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


"iMarij  garden  (9hoeoIatesr 

"Qjour  (Phoeohtef  are  really  the  ffne^ThaOe 
eOer  ta^ed anxjwhere  in  the  World" 



OF     PIA 



1^        I  »^ 

3i:i    FIFTH    AVENUE 

■  NEW    YORK    CITY 

>    '«* 

;,  ,     t 



atiy^'Veader    or    i.iiend   of  the  L 


rypewriter  in  good  condition  which 

^g  to  donate  to  the  t.ause  of  Art? 

is    very    difficult     fov     one    of 


o.            jh. 

-!'':''•  rV  ::r»f '■,  Jr'^T''. 


-     -  — I 

■^■lEfV  Of  .1-w...  .V.V 
AND  fjn'Tl'.RS 

ON«    AND    ci; 

wrrTp:R  bynnt.k,  kmanuki,.  (.:arn'T'-v 

;LKOWSKA,    S.    FOSTRS    !:>AMO\',    [ 

rr.v;-      •■-f.-!?     VQN     FKEV' '''-■■  >^ 
^EN    HIsCH';' 

:r,  |A^■^ 

MARV     liUT 

[   jiAiMUiiKi<.   MAY    '^i:>v 
.•f:  .',  WII.I, 

;!niER    BRZi'SKA,     <'<fjARi 
l.,L-WIS,    CHAN  A    O: 

r.'-K!.    os;p    ZAHx 

\v  t:^  i   Li^-it  i  LL 

-1  \r     /  %  f.M."  I  r  ■ 


•'    BKLSIZK 



»•;  ■  4r^    '-Iff V .'  -  rA  *■ ..-  • ''  ■-'  • 




No.  4 


Ashe  of  Rings,  I. 

Corps  et  Biens 

The  Man  in  the  Brown  Coat 


"Ulysses"  in  Court 


Katrina   Silverstaff 

Discussion : 

Sumner  versus  James  Joyce 

Lawrence  Atkinson 


Apropos  Art  and  its  Trials 

Mr.  Rodker  and  Modern  French  Poetry 

To  Mina  Loy 

The  Wind-Flowers  of  Asklepiades 

Hamlet-of-the-Wedding-Ring  Else  von 

Dada  Manifesto 
K    The  Reader  Critic 

Mary  Butts 

Louis  A r agon 

Sherwood  Anderson 

Mark  Turbyfill 

Margaret  Anderson 

Philippe  Soupault 

Djuna  Barnes 

Harriet  Monroe 

Horace  Shipp 

Lawrence  Atkinson 

Emmy  Sanders 

Muriel  Ciolkowska 

John  Rodker 

Mary  Butts 

Abel  Sanders 





Ashe  of  Rings 

by  Mary  Butts 

Part   I 
Chapter  I 

RINGS  lay  in  a  cup  of  turf.  A  thin  spring  sun  painted  its 
stones  white.  Two  rollers  of  chalk  down  hung  over  it; 
midway  between  their  crest  and  the  sea  the  house  crouched 
like  a  dragon  on  a  saucer  of  jade. 

In  the  walled  garden  behind  the  house  the  air  was 
filtered  from  the  sea  wind  and  made  a  mixing  bowl  for  scents,  for 
bees,  coloured  insects,  and  noisy  birds.  An  old  gardener  picking 
gooseberries  straightened  his  back  to  spit.  The  great  drive  up  which 
the  countryside  crawled  like  weakening  flies  swerved  to  the  right 
where  a  stream  ran  into  the  sea.  There  the  cliffs  parted  and  the 
hurrying  sea  beat  into  a  round  cove  full  of  rocks.  The  waves  rang 
within  earshot  of  the  lodge.  In  storms  they  covered  it  with  spray. 
There  Rings  ended  and  the  world  began. 

The  station  fly  ground  round  the  corner  by  the  shore.  Anthony 
Ashe  poked  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  smelt  his  strip  of  beach. 
Half  way  up  the  avenue  he  stopped  the  cab  and  got  out. 

"That  will  do,  Mouseman,  thank  you.     Good  afternoon." 

He  passed  under  the  trees  whose  long  buds  broke  the  light  and 

The    Little    Review 

took  a  footpath  across  the  park.     He  walked  quickly. 

The  house  has  a  thousand  eyesf  He  turned  his  head  to  the  sea 
under  their  scrutiny  till  a  straggled  wood  of  black  pine  hid  him 
and  the  path  turned  red. 

Anthony  Ashe  of  Rings  remembered  that  he  should  have  insured 
the  driver's  silence — the  words  had  not  shaped.  But  there  were  no 
words,  and  tongue  slithing  out  of  fashion.  A  great  lord  of  the  world 
would  admit  that.  The  house  would  know  already — a  small  child 
running  up  the  drive  with  the  news.     It  did  not  matter. 

"It  is  said  of  this  place  that  in  the  time  of  Arthur,  the  legendary 
king  of  Britain,  Morgan  le  Fay,  an  enchantress  of  that  period  had 
dealings  of  an  inconceivable  nature  there.  Also  that  it  was  used 
by  druid  priests,  and  even  before  then  as  a  place  for  holy  and  magical 
rites  and  ceremonies.  A  battle  of  the  Danes  and  Saxons  was  fought 
there.  Today  the  country-people  will  not  approach  it  at  night,  not 
the  hardiest  shepherd.  There  is  a  tradition  that  in  the  barrow  above 
the  earthworks  is  placed  a  box  of  bright  gold." 

The  first  Ring  raised  its  thirty  feet  of  turf.  A  ribbon  of  chalk 
path  ran  along  its  crest,  a  loop  a  mile  round.  Inside  was  a  second  wall 
and  within  that  a  third.  On  the  plateau  above  them  was  a  round 
barrow,  irrelevantly  placed,  and  a  dewpond  full  of  mud.  Behind 
the  pond  and  barrow  there  was  a  grove,  ragged  trees  exceedingly  tall, 
pines  and  beeches,  knit  at  the  feet  with  hazel  and  bramble  and  fern. 
On  its  skirt  a  pleasant  wood,  its  centre  a  saggy  tricket  full  of  white 
marsh  grass.  Year  in,  year  out,  the  wind  rang  in  its  crest  with  the 
noise  of  a  harp. 

From  these  rings  and  this  grove  depended  the  fantastic  house, 
and  the  generations  called  Ashe  which  were  born  there  and  pattered 
through  its  hall  and  bright  passages  like  leaves.  The  triple  circle 
was  the  sole  device  on  their  shield,  represented  from  the  hatchment 
of  their  dead  to  the  coral  and  bells  each  baby  shook  and  chewed. 
An  old  drawing  represented  the  Rings  come  down  from  their  hill  and 
sitting  like  an  extinguisher  upon  the  house.     It  had  been  calculated 

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that  allowing  for  all  projections  the  house  would  fit  exactly  into  the 
roots  of  the  wood. 

"A  British  camp,  but  of  pre-British — possibly  neolithic — origin, 
used  by  the  Romans,  a  refuge  for  Celt  and  then  for  the  Saxon,  a 
place  of  legend  and  consequent  aversion  to  the  countryside  ever  since, 
it  is  well  that  so  interesting  an  historic  site  should  have  remained 
in  the  preservation  of  so  ancient  a  family." 

Anthony  Ashe  stamped  his  arms  on  the  presentation  copy  of  these 
sentiment  and  knew  better.  The  Rings  preserved  //////.  His  son 
Julian  had  died,  and  that  night  he  had  gone  up  to  them  a  blind  beast. 
After  these  years  in  the  East,  in  Russia,  he  had  come  back,  without 
mate,  without  heir,  to  present  his  accounts  and  their  deficit. 

He  went  through  the  gap  in  the  first  rampart,  crossed  the  fosse, 
and  mounted  the  white  chalk  steps  over  the  second  ring,  and  the 
third.  The  wind  ran  along  them  shivering,  and  a  thistle  tapped  his 
boot.  He  climbed  the  barrow,  sat  on  it,  and  looked  back  down  the 
valley  to  his  house. 

The  Rings  kept  the  wide  valley  head.  From  them  a  road,  green 
white  and  faint  ran  into  a  birchwood,  and  through  the  delicate  trees 
to  a  door  in  the  kitchen  garden  wall.  Thus  no  one  but  shepherds 
came  to  the  Rings  except  through  Rings.  At  the  valley  head  the 
road  was  lost  in  a  powdering  of  flints. 

Thick  white  smoke  rose  from  two  chimneys  below.  The  fire 
was  lit  in  the  library  and  in  his  dressing-room.  The  news  had  come. 
He  dragged  at  his  short  beard  with  his  knees  till  his  chin  ached. 
There  must  be  children.  And  for  that  some  strong  girl.  His  name 
would  obtain  one.  What  was  left  of  his  life  could  be  given  to 
her  training.  A  lively  sacrifice  to  this  place.  It  did  not  matter 
whom,  rd  be  daft  to  refuse  him,  the  laird  o  Cockpeiu  An  old  tune. 
That's  it.  Soon  to  find.  Easy  to  keep.  But  a  stale  business.  There 
was  revenge.  What  had  been  a  duty  would  remain  one.  The  carved 
bed  frightened  them?  Chinese.  The  Imperial  Court.  A  girl  slung 
across  the  back  of  the  chief  Eunuch.  Left  to  crawl  up  from  the 
foot  of  the  dragon-bed.  Would  Clavel  like  the  job?  .  .  .  All  the 
solemn  county  to  placate.     Cruets. 

Oh  God!  let  me  see  it  through.     Rings,  it's  been  a  labour  fol- 

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lowing  through  the  centuries  your  eternal  caprice.  It  comes  again. 
I  don't  doubt  that  it  will  come  again.  ...  I  do  not  know  what 
it  is.  .  .  .  To  every  Ashe  in  turn  it  happens.  .  .  .  You  .  .  . 
sinff,  and  singing  in  your  glory  move.  .  .  .  'Julian — my  son 

A  specialist's  undertaking.  The  things  that  one  foregoes.  The 
feather  in  Rings  cap.  You  could  cover  a  broader  skull.  My  old 
head  aches  with  you. 

He  wrote  with  his  stick  upon  a  patch  of  chalk.  Anthony  Ashe 
— 1892 — Iste  perfecit  opus. 

**I  must  go  down  and  see  about  that  child."  He  stood  up  reset- 
ting his  gray  top  hat.  A  breath  fluttered  through  the  tree  tops  and 
ran  through  the  grey  hair  fringes  on  the  back  of  his  skull.  He  shook 
his  head. 

"Caprice — Caprice — stop  tickling  my  neck.  I  tell  you  one 
thing.  Not  one  of  the  bitches  who  want  it  shall  have  it.  Their 
virginities  can  wither  on  them.  Once  I'm  dead  they  can  go  for  her. 
I'm  an  old  man.  The  strain  needs  crossing.  That's  it.  Dance 
round.  Tickle  my  chin.  So  Julian  wasn't  your  fancy.  ...  If 
I  stopped  calling  you  pretty  women  Lesbian  dryads — I  couldn't  stand 
it.  Is  that  why  he  died.  Did  he  see  in  you  what  I  dare  not  see? 
So  that  he  died.  .  .  .  Good  night,  sweet  prince.  You  were  a 
young  dog  to  turn  up  your  nose  at  the  pretty  ladies  of  Rings  H.U. 

"I  suppose  I  had  better  go  in?"  He  ran  down  the  side  of  the 
barrow  and  walked  into  the  wood.  A  light  shell  of  turf,  and  spring- 
ing needles.  Then  mud  curled  over  the  toes  of  his  boots.  A  spring- 
ing bramble  reversed  its  hooks  across  his  nose.  The  blood  dripped 
quickly  through  the  thin  skin.  He  controlled  his  fury.  Another 
curled  across  his  waistcoat.  He  loosed  each  hook  in  turn.  High  up 
the  wind  sang  with  seraphic  lightness,  a  transparent  feather  flat- 
tened into  the  crown  of  the  gray  top  hat.  With  lovely  lightness  the 
wind  fell,  the  last  sigh  ran  down  the  shafts  and  scattered  in  minute 
touches.  .  .  .  He  thrust  on  slowly  into  the  clearing  where  there 
was  a  large  stone. 

Light  women.  Light  women.-  Rings  whores.  On  this  rock  I 
have  built  my  church.    He  stood  five  minutes  with  greedy  eyes.   Then 

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he  struck  through  and  hurried  from  the  wood,  over  the  rampart  and 
down  the  rabbit-darting  hill. 

Chapter  II 

The  library  had  thirty-two  lancet  windows  to  enclose  a  quarter- 
ing of  Ashe.  At  the  east  end  in  the  wall's  angle  seven  stairs  led 
up  to  a  round  room,  the  floor  of  a  tower  called  Rings  Root.  Anthony 
Ashe  ran  up.  He  peered  at  the  dim  carved  panels  like  a  man  inside 
a  barrel.  The  sun  lay  in  ochre  strips  on  the  floor's  deep  brown  glass. 
Across  each  window  the  sea  sparkled,  but  no  breeze  followed  througli 
the  great  depth  of  stone.  A  fire  of  fir-cones  charred  to  a  chalk-red 
ash.  A  chair  was  placed  at  the  third  window,  its  arms  finished  with 
dolphin's  heads.  He  stretched  and  straddled  in  his  quintessence  of 
privacy,  a  handsome  daimon  inside  a  Chinese  ball.  The  room  was 
in  the  heart  of  Rings.  There  Ursula  Ashe  had  declared  herself  a 
witch.  Then  there  appeared  at  uncertain  times  a  sphere  of  pure 
light.  On  the  wall  hung  a  lead  hourglass  filled  with  scarlet  sand. 
He  reversed  it  and  sat  down  at  the  open  cabinet.  He  drew  a  trail  of 
little  beasts,  cats,  cows,  occasionally  birds,  but  the  head  of  each  was 
that  of  a  maiden  of  the  place. 

"The  Landlady's  girl  at  the  Crow.  God  of  Rings,  we  might  d-j 
worse.  She'd  fill  the  gilt  cradle,  and  the  oak  cradle,  and  the  ivory 
box  that  held  the  Italian  brat."    He  looked  up  at  the  red  trickle. 

"Do  it  by  the  alphabet.  A  for  Anne — Anne  Avebury.  Apple 
cheeks.  She's  a  sweet  maid.  I  like  her  too  well.  Let  her  keep  her 
innocence.  B.  D.  Damnation.  Deisdie — Doris  Benison  of  Phares. 

"H — there's  Hilaria  Lynde — napie's  the  best  part  of  her.  L 
J — Jocelyn — bad  little  bitch  that.  K.  L.  N.  M.  Marion  Mangester. 
God  forbid — Muriel  Butler.  What  made  me  think?  They  live  at 
Gulltown.  Blind  father,  black  satin  mother.  Sprigged  muslin  girls 
— two.  What's  a  name.  She's  neutral.  She'd  do.  Body  like  a 
tree — head  like  a  daffodil — the  name — obscene  word — Mavis,  May, 
Millicent.  Oh,  Christ.  Melitta,  that's. better.  Melitta  Ashe."  The 
sands  ran  out. 

"A  frill  of  saffron  muslin,  goffered  small.     Nancy  would  do  it. 

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You  ask  her,  Ver?" 

"Did  he  pay  you  much  attention?" 

"They  say  he's  engaged  to  Norah  Clancy,  but  it's  a  secret — " 

"Then  don't  mention  it." 

"Poor  young  man.     I  pity  him  if  it's  true." 

"He  is  old  enough  to  know  his  own  mind.  I  believe  it's  a  case. 
Haven't  you  finished.     Mother  wants  us  to  go  shopping — " 

"If  I  meet  the  Morton  boy  I  shall  ask  him." 

'Muriel,  that  would  be  abominably  inquisitive." 

"Ver,  Ver,  what  else  is  there  to  do?    What  else  is  there  to  do?" 

"Look  here,  young  lady,  do  you  want  to  become  Mrs.  Ashe  or 
don't  you." 

"You  know — Anthony,  you  know — " 

"Then  you  will  not  be  called  Muriel.  When  you  understand 
things  rather  more,  you  will  know  why.  You  shall  be  called  Melitta, 

"Very  well.    Then  I  shall  call  you  Tony.     Droit  du  seigneur." 

"As  you  like,  puss.  Now  you  had  better  find  out  what  Melitta 

*         *         * 

Gulltown  hung  on  a  cliff — white  house  hung  with  flowers  on 
a  white  cliff.  A  breeding  place  for  fishermen  and  shepherds  form 
the  downs,  there  was  also  a  snail's  nest  of  little  gentry  hanging  on  one 
another.  An  incredible  honour  had  fallen  on  Muriel,  elder  of  the 
sisters.  The  greatest  of  the  country  lords  had  ridden  to  her  house, 
and  in  nine  words  to  her  father  had  bespoken  her. 

"Tell  her  that  I  will  come  for  her  answer  to-morrow.  Give 
her  these  roses.     Tell  her  I  will  wait  a  week  longer  if  she  wishes." 

She  had  not  seen  the  scarlet  sands  run  out,  nor  a  piece  of  paper 
covered  with  sketches  that  half  burnt  had  lit  his  cigar.  M — stood 
for  mandril  and  B — for  bitch. 

A  ripe  virgin,  she  wept  into  her  Tennyson  and  combed  her 
rich  hair. 

"Ver,  how  can  I?  Ver,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Ask  yourself   Muriel.     You  like  him,  you  esteem  him.     Do 

The     Little     Review 

you  love  him?" 

"I  cannot  believe  it's  true," 

"Marriage  is  holy.     Don't  forget.     It  cannot  be  undone." 

"Mistress  of  Rings." 

"The  wife  of  Mr.  Ashe.  Who  could  have  believed  that  when 
poor  Julian  dragged  him  over  for  tennis  it  would  ever  come  to  this? 
He  was  very  kind  to  me." 

"So  he  was  to  us  all."    A  look.    What  of  it?     I  have  done  this. 

"How  shall  I  manage  that  marvellous  house." 

"You  mean  to  accept  him?" 

"Accept  him.     Oh  yes,  yes,  yes.     Refuse  Rings?" 

"My  dear  Muriel — remember — you  are  not  marrying  his  estate, 
you  are  marrying  Mr.  Ashe." 

"Who  marries  Ashe  marries  Rings.  You  silly  woman.  Don't 
you  know  that?" 

Her  eyes  crawled  over  her  sister,  scissor-point  to  scare  the  vir- 
gin, mark  her  plain  as  the  adulteress.  Vera  looked  steadily  over  her 
sister's  -shoulder. 

"Have  you  thought.  There  may  be  babies — that  would  make 
UF> — " 

"Children — I  hope  not — I  mean — I  don't  quite  know.  It's  a 
nasty  subject.     Oh  I  wish  Mr.  Ashe  had  never  called." 

"Darling  sister,  forgive  me.  Tell  me.  Was  there  ever  any  feeling 
between  you  and  poor  Julian?" 

Wire  between  brain  and  brain.     Thought  running  like  a  mouse. 

"Never.  Never.  Never.  Who  has  been  saying  so  abominable 
a  thing? — It  is  is  a  lie — I  am  marrying  his  father.  That  will  show 

"Dear,  you  mustn't.  And  as  to  your  marrying  Mr.  Ashe  be- 
cause you  imagine  that  people — " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  it  then?" 

"I  only  thought." 

Wind  bitten  flowers  nodding  behind  the  daffodil's  head.  But 
she  was  going  to  marry  the  father.  Her  sewing  fell  ofi  her  lap. 
She  kicked  it.     Never  sew  again. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  cross.     People  are  cruel.     But   I   know 

10  The    Little    Review 

you'll  believe  me," 

"We'll  never  speak  of  it  again." 

"We  won't  because  there  is  nothing  to  speak  of.  Can't  I  rely 
on  my  own  sister  to  believe  that?" 

Chapter  III 

In  the  well  of  the  library,  her  eyes  satiated  with  the  coat  armour 
she  could  not  read,  Melitta  Ashe  summoned  her  courage.  It  did 
not  come  as  an  elemental  to  the  word  of  power,  as  angel,  socratic 
daimon,  a  noble  beast.  She  urged,  she  whimpered.  Her  bully  com- 
mands and  resentful  sensual  girl.  Una  mounted  her  lion.  Anthony 
Ashe  came  down  the  seven  stairs. 

"I  would  not  strike  a  woman  with  a  flower,  but  what  am  I 
to  do  to  you  if  you  poke  your  brassy  head  into  my  room?" 
"How  am  I  to  know  if  the  servants  do  their  work?" 
"There  is  no  need.     They  know  their  work.     Part  of.  which 
is  to  tidy  the  room  and  leave  me  alone." 

"Where  is  the  crystal  ball  you  promised  to  show  me?" 
"Ursula's.     I  have  it.     Do  you  want  to  understand  jewels?" 
"I  thought  that  one  saw  pictures — and  the  future — and  things." 
"Go  to  any  Bond  Street  hag  for  that." 
"Tell  me  about  your  great-great-grandmother." — 
"Ursula  Ashe?"     He  led  her  to  a  seat  and  placed  a  footstool. 
A  snake  was  carved  on   it,   and   reared   in  loops  about  a  bee-skep. 
Her  feet  shifted  in  their  lace  stockings. 

"\ou  spoke  of  Ursula — she  was  earlier.  It  was  she  who  brought 
into  prominence  the  practice  of  magic  to  which  our  family  has  always 
been  liable." 

To  Melitta  the  slow  pencils  the  sun  laid  across  the  floor  moved 

"She  travelled  to  Italy.  She  lived  here  as  a  girl.  She  came 
back,  you  can  imagine  the  contacts.  Up  there  a  keep  her  book. 
Every  Ashe  in  his  turn  lives  to  read  it.  None  of  us  have  done  so 
entirely.  I  no  more  than  the  rest.  I  sometimes  dream  about  it. 
If  you  live  here  long,  you  will  dream." 

The     Little     Review  11 

"Is  it  in  cipher?" 

"In  part." 

"Does  it  make  nonsense?" 

"No.  Part  is  in  reference  to  an  occult  book,  the  Enchiridion 
of  a  Pope.  To  us  conventional  hocus  pocus.  Then  a  diary  full  of 
morbid  aond  profound  psychology^  Then  a  section  in  cipher  which, 
so  far,  no  one  has  read." 

"What  was  she  like?" 

"Her  son  destroyed  her  portrait.  He  was  on  Cromwell's  side. 
He  saw  chalked  on  his  bedroom  door  a  curse  because  of  the  whore- 
doms of  thy  mother  Jezabel  arid  her  witchcrafts.  He  cut  off  his 
hair,  turned  the  gilt  chapel  her  Italians  had  built  her  to  celebrate  the 
black  mass  into  a  still  room,  and  celebrated  the  beheading  of  Charles 
instead.    Plus  ca  change." 

"Oh  how  dreadful." 

"But  romantic,  girl,  romantic.  I  should  have  thought  romantic 
enough  even  for  you." 

"But  to  behead  King  Charles,  it  was  a  crime.  He  iiothituj 
common  did  or  mean.  I've  loved  that  verse.  And  you  speak  as 
though  it  were  any  common  execution." 

"My  dear  silly   girl." 

Over  the  house  through  the  sparkling  air  dropped  a  bronze 
note  as  a  man  might  fall  bound,  upright  down  a  well.  Within  the 
house  followed  a  burr,  a  tinkle,  a  humming,  breaking  with  cross 
beats  into  the  same  cadence. 

She  sat  still. 

"Can  you  feel,"  said  Anthony  Ashe,  "now  time  is  made  sound 
and  we  listen  to  it,  and  are  outside  it.  Have  you  thought  what  it 
is  to  be  outside  time.    Turn  again,  little  Melitta." 

He  took  her  on  his  knee. 

"Melitta,  Paphian, 

Immortal  Courtesan, 

Virgin  Mother — I'm  sorry,  but  there  are  times  when  every 
Ashe  is  obliged  to  make  a  verse." 

But  it  sounds — it  sounds." 

"Like  the  Ephesian  Artemis.     She  of  the  Hundred  Breasts." 

12  T  he    Lit  tie    Review 

"But  Anthony,  it  is  coarse,  and  disrespectful  to  me  as  your  wife." 

His  fine  hand  smoothed  away  his  sneer. 

"Try  to  understand."  Silence.  "Do  you  not  understand  the 
link  between  yourself  and  a  great  love  goddess — the  type  of  all  things 
which  a  woman  is  or  may  become?" 

She  wriggled  and  sprang  down  from  his  knee. 

"I've  been  trying  to  tell  you  all  the  morning.  And  you  make  it 
harder  with  every  dreadful  thing  you  say.  I  am  going  to  have  a 
child.     I  know  I  am  going  to  have  a  child. 

"And  there  is  something  vile  about  this  house.  I  don't  know 
what  the  things  are  in  it.     1  feel  its  memories  watching  me. 

"It  is  much  too  beautiful.  Only  wicked  people  would  have  cared 
about  them  so  much. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  can  sit  there.  Don't  you  care  for  what 
IS  going  to  happen  to  me?" 

"What,  my  dear  little  fool,  do  you  suppose  I  married  you  for?" 

She  ran  out  wailing. 

"Take  it  quietly,  it's  all  in  nature.  My  God,  does  she  want 
every  servant  in  the  place  to  know  her  condition?" 

She  was  gone  and  into  the  room  rolled  the  sun.  A  crowned  globe, 
a  poppy  head  burst,  scattered,  it  enriched  the  gilt  and  the  glass  and 
the  waxed  floor  the  colour  of  old  beer.  Out  side  the  birds  struck 
up  and  the  bees  thundered.  The  letters  on  the  books  sparked,  his 
cigarette  lit  at  a  puff.  He  was  comforted.  If  he  had  laughed  her. 
out  it  was  to  give  the  room  its  turn.  Why  didn't  she  meet  its 
challenge?  It  could  be  hers.  He  remembered.  What?  had  he  not 
got  him  a  mate?  Rings  saw  nothing  but  the  soul.  This  pink  and 
white  shepherdess  not  three  months  married  raised  her  moralities.   .   .   . 

There  had  been  the  station  cabman  on  the  drive.  Situations 
which  cannot  be  met.  Dealings  with  one's  inferiors.  "Lord  I  thank 
thee  that  I  am  not — " 

And  to  his  estate  aloud — "O  thou  delight  of  the  world,  may 
my  child  be  equally  delightful  to  thee."  He  surrendered  himself. 
The  long  glittering  room  blessed  him.  He  climbed  that  dais  which 
enclosed  the  north  side  and  half  the  west  wall  and  went  out  to  look 
for  Melitta. 

T  he    Little    Review  13 

On  the  valley  path  she  struggled  with  the  sun.  The  sphere 
which  had  broken — bubbled  in  the  house — shot  out  and  beat  her 
with  golden  rods.  The  turf  closed  round  empty  shells.  The  path 
was  sharp  with  flints,  the  heat  like  an  army  with  banners.  Get  up. 
High,  ever  so  high.  Up  there  over  the  earth-works  there  will  be 
a  cradle,  long  grass  and  clean  and  light..  Only  sun  and  butterflies, 
and  over  the  rampart  a  peep  into  a  world  like  tea-things  set  out  on 
a  lawn,  all  the  way  over  to  GuUtown  she  was  a  great  lady  now. 
She  despised  Gulltown.  She  was  ashamed  to  remember 
Gulltown.  Her  obscure  innitiation  was  concluded.  By  a  process 
equally  misunderstood  she  was  to  produce  a  child.  A  long  way  to 
the  top  of  the  hill.  Of  course.  That  was  why  the  place  was  called 
Rings.  Mrs.  Ashe  of  Rings.  They  belonged  to  her.  One  might  put 
a  summerhouse  there,  and  have  the  stones  picked  out  of  the  path. 

People  were  coming  to  lunch.  Just  time  to  let  the  wind  blow 
through  her  hair.  Wear  a  string  of  yellow  topaz.  Not  round  her 
neck.  Slung  across.  On  a  white  gown.  Pretend  to  be  ill.  No 
good.  She  would  make  excuses  and  cry.  He  would  never  do  any- 
thing he  did  not  want  to.  Horrid,  horrid  insolent  old  man.  How 
did  he  have  his  merry  son?  Wicked  thought.  We're  married.  We're 
married.  Till  death  do  us  part.  It  will  part  us.  Not  for  years  and 
years.  It  was  a  long  way  to  the  breeze.  Anthony  Ashe  found  her 
quiet  on  the  grass. 

"The  sun  was  making  a  burning  glass  of  your  hair." 

"Was  it." 

"Aren't  you  coming  back  to  lunch?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Who  would  like  to  go  to  the  South  of  France  this  winter?" 

"Monte  Carlo?" 

"If  you  insist?" 

"Ought  I  to — when — Anthony,  don't  laugh  at  me  like  that." 

"Don't  cry  at  me  like  that  then  with  greed   in  your  eyes 

Coming? Don's  forget  the  topazes  on  your  dress?" 


"On  white  mind " 

Later  in  the  day.  "What  made  you  run  up  there?" 

14  T  he    Lit  tie     Review 

"Do  you  know  that  if  it  were  not  for  that  place  there  would 
be  no  Rings.     And  no  Ashe  of  Rings." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"That  you  are  my  wife — and  your  life  is  bound  up  with  the 
i'fc  on  that  hill.  Your  child's  life  will  be  bound  up  with  a  life  out- 
side your  own.     Like  the  mother  of  Meleager." 

"It  sounds  heathen.     I  don't  understand." 

"You  must  become  a  brave  woman.  You  must  learn.  You 
must  be  a  brave  woman.  Before  we  go  abroad  I  will  take  you  up 

-    "Oh  Anthony — " 

"Ursula  Ashe  would  be  carried  up  there  to  be  delivered  of  her 
children — " 

"Because  your  people  were  as  hard  as  bark  and  as  wicked  as 
the  globe.     Why  do  you  expect  me — " 

"That's  better.     That's  my   brave   girl." 

"I  don't  konw.  They  seemed  so  high,  up  and  away  from  the 
pettiness  of  the  world." 

(To   be  continued) 

Corps  et  Biens 

by  Louis  Aragon 

Corps  perdu 

AQUOI  passez-vous  votre  temps 
Les  jongleurs  apres  chaque  tour  essuient  leurs  mains  dans  Li 
Et  moi  la  tete  vide 

je  vais  dormir  au  sein  d'autres  blancheurs  ou   regne  avec  le  grand 
balancement  des  chiens  de  mer 
cette  nacre  dont  les  regards  font  mourir 
A  quoi  bon  tourner  dans  le  monde  Ecureuil  du  petit  matin. 
On  ne  peut  pas  sortir  de  I'horizon  cercle  des  bras  prison  nouee 
Encore  une  fois  le  rire  atroce  et  la  chevelure  tout  a  coup  dressee 
Mes  doigts  mes  doigts  Comme  il  est  tard 
Tout  sombre 

La  nuit  n'est  pourtant  pas  si  noire 
On  a  beau  pousser  le  mur  de  la  main  I'air  ne  vient  pas 
J'ai  soif 


C'est  1 'amour 



Tu  chantes?     Ou  ton  regard  est-il  parti? 
Ce  n'est  pas  le  moment  de  chanter. 

16  T  he    Little    Review 



|-H     Ce  soir  les  mots  viennent  de  loin. 
-■ — ^         D'un  pays  de  terrasses. 
— Te  tairas-tu? 
Nos  fronts  sur  le  linge  comme  des  soleils  couchants  tombent  avec 

le  cadavre  des  caresses. 
— Tu  me  tues. 
Ta  bouche  me  suit:  suis-je  done  un  charmeur  de  serpents?     Dans 

ta  prunelle  il  n'y  a  rien. 

Rien  si  ce  n'est  la  fin  de  tout. 
— Le  son  de  ta  voix  m'enerve." 



LEVE-TOI,  marche. 
Voyons,  il  ne  s'agit  pas  d'un  voyage.     Promene-toi  comme  une 
personne  a  travers  la  chambre. 
Bien.  Reviens  maintenant. 


del  de  lit 

LE  poete  chante. 
"Comme  il  fait  chaud  ce  soir!" 
Tout-a-coup  un  air  passe  par  la  tete. 
"Ecoute  I'oiseau  de  ma  poitrine. 
— Mes   paupieres  sont  des  pierres  a  moulin,  mon  amour: 

Tout  meurt  excepte  ce  grand  regard  que  tu  poses  sur  mon  epaule 

comme  une  aile  de  navire. 
C'est  triste  a  dire. 
— Comment  ? 
— Penser  donne  le  vertige." 

The     Little     Review  17 


Mer  d' Huile 

SII'^OUS  ne  parlons  pas,  c'est  que  nous  n'avons  rien  a  dire. 
Nous  sommes  longs.     Le  feu  s'cteint. 
L'homme  et  la  femme  cote  a  cote  ont  perdu  -la  notion  du  temps. 
Quelle  heure  est  il? 
J'ai  oublie  ma  montre. 


Point  fnoi't 

II  fait  lourd. 
Ecarte  un  peu  le  temps  qui  il  fait,  tes  cheveux  lourds 
sur  ma  figure. 
Bonne  nuit. 


Sommeil  de  plonib 

GELA  dure. 
II  n'y  aura  pas  de  lendemain. 
La  main  que  je  tiens  en  reve  ne  me  me'nera  nulle  part, 

II  ou  elle  dort. 

L'armoire  a  glace  veille  encore. 

The  Man  in  the  Brown  Coat 

by  Sherwood  Aiiderson 

NAPOLEON  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a 
Alexander  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a 
General  Grant  got  off  his  horse  and  walked  in  a  wood. 
General  Hindenburg  stood  on  a  hill.  The  moon  came  up 
out  of  a  clump  of  bushes. 

I  am  writing  a  history  of  the  things  men  do.  I  have  written  three 
such  histories,  and  I  am  but  a  young  man.  Already  I  have  written 
three  hundred,  four  hundred  thousand  words. 

My  wife  is  somewhere  in  this  house  where  for  hours  I  have  been 
sitting  and  writing.  She  is  a  tall  woman  with  black  hair  turning  a 
little  grey.  Listen,  she  is  going  softly  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  All  day 
she  goes  softly,  doing  the  housework  in  our  house. 

I  came  to  this  town  from  another  town  in  the  state  of  Iowa.  My 
father  was  a  mender  of  shoes.  1  worked  my  way  through  college 
and  became  a  historian.  We  own  this  house  in  which  I  sit.  This  is 
my  room  in  which  I  work.  Already  I  have  written  three  histories 
of  peoples.  I  have  told  how  states  were  formed  and  battles  fought. 
You  may  see  my  books  standing  straight  up  on  the  shelves  of  libraries. 
They  stand  up  like  sentries. 

I  am  tall  like  my  wife  but  my  shoulders  are  stooped.  Although  T 
v/rite  boldly  I  am  a  shy  man.  I  like  being  in  this  room  alone  with 
the  door  locked.  There  are  many  books  here.  Nations  march  back 
and  forth  in  the  books.  It  is  quiet  here  but  in  the  books  a 
thunderinji  jjoes  on. 

The    Little     Review  19 

Napoleon  rides  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 

General  Grant  walks  in  a  wood. 

Alexander  rides  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 

IVIy  wife  has  a  serious,  almost  stern  look.  In  the  afternoon  she 
leaves  our  house  and  goes  for  a  walk.  Sometimes  she  goes  to  stores, 
sometimes  to  visit  a  neighbour.  There  is  a  yellow  house  opposite  our 
house.  My  wife  goes  out  a  side  door  and  passes  along  our  street 
between  our  house  and  the  yellow  house. 

The  window  before  my  desk  makes  a  little  framed  place  like  a  pic- 
ture. The  yellow  house  across  the  street  makes  a  solid  background 
of  yellow. 

The  side  door  of  our  house  bangs.  There  is  a  moment  of  waiting. 
My  wife's  face  floats  across  the  yellow  background  of  the  picture. 

General  Pershing  rode  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 
Alexander  rode  down  a  hill  and  into  a  battle. 

Little  things  are  growing  big  in  my  mind.  The  window  before  mv 
desk  makes  a  little  framed  place  like  a  picture.  Every  day  I  wait 
staring.  I  wait  with  an  odd  sensation  of  something  impending. 
My  hand  trembles.  The  face  that  floats  through  the  picture  does 
something  I  don't  understand.  The  face  floats,  then  it  stops.  It 
goes  from  the  right  hand  side  to  the  left  hand  side,  then  it  stops. 

The  face  comes  into  my  mind  and  goes  out.  The  face  floats  in  my 
mind.  The  pen  falls  from  my  fingers.  The  house  is  silent.  The 
eyes  of  the  floating  face  are  turned  away  from  me. 

My  wife  is  a  girl  who  came  here  to  this  town  from  a  town  in  Ohio. 
We  employ  a  servant  but  often  my  wife  sweeps  the  floors  and  some- 
times she  makes  the  bed  in  which  we  sleep  together.  We  sit  together 
in  the  evening  but  I  do  not  know  her.  I  cannot  shake  myself  out  of 
myself,    I  wear  a  brown  coat  and  I  cannot  come  out  of  my  coat.    I 

20  The     Little     Review 

cannot  come  out  of  myself.  My  wife  is  very  silent  and  speaks  softly 
but  she  cannot  come  out  of  herself. 

My  wife  has  gone  out  of  the  house.  She  does  not  know  that  I  know 
every  little  thought  of  her  life.  I  know  about  her  and  what  she 
thought  when  she  was  a  child  and  walked  in  the  street  of  an  Ohio 
town.  I  have  heard  the  voices  of  her  mind.  I  have  heard  the  little 
voices.  I  heard  the  voices  crying  that  night  long  ago  when  she  was 
suddenly  overtaken  with  passion  and  came  running  to  crawl  into  my 
arms  where  she  lay  trembling.  I  heard  the  voices  of  her  mind  talk- 
ing as  we  sat  together  on  the  first  evening  after  we  were  married  and 
had  moved  into  this  house. 

It  would  be  strange  if  I  could  sit  here,  as  I  am  doing  now,  while 
my  own  face  floated  across  the  picture  made  by  the  yellow  house 
and  the  window.  It  would  be  strange  and  beautiful  if  I  could  meet 
my  wife,  come  into  her  presence. 

The  woman  whose  face  has  just  floated  across  my  picture  knows 
nothing  of  me.  I  know  nothing  of  her.  She  has  gone  off  along  the 
street.  The  voices  of  her  mind  are  talking.  I  am  here  in  this  room 
as  alone  as  ever  any  man  God  made. 

It  would  be  strange  and  beautiful  if  I  could  float  my  face  across  a 
picture,  if  my  floating  face  could  come  into  her  presence,  if  it  could 
come  into  the  presence  of  any  man  or  any  woman.  That  would  be 
a  strange  and  beautiful  thing  to  have  happen. 

Napoleon  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a  horse. 

General  Grant  went  into  a  wood. 

Alexander  went  down  into  a  battle  riding  on  a  horse. 

Some  day  I  shall  make  a  testament  unto  myself. 

I'll  tell  you  what — sometimes  the  whole  face  of  this  world  floats  in  a 
human  face  in  my  mind.  The  unconscious  face  of  the  world  stops 
and  stands  still  before  me. 

The     Little     Review  2\ 

Why  do  I  not  say  a  word  out  of  myself  to  the  others?  Why,  in  all 
our  life  together,  have  I  never  been  able  to  break  through  the  wall 
to  my  wife?  Already  I  have  written  three  hundred,  four  hundred 
thousand  words.  Are  there  no  words  for  life?  Some  day  I  shall 
make  a  testament  unto  myself. 


by  Mark  Turbyfill 

Tjjg    crested  tulips 
By  the  white  pebble  path 
Array  themselves  as  chattering  birds  of  paradise. 
Their  flame  streaks  on  iridescent  surfaces 
Shock  the  great  space  of  waiting  in  these  thin  days. 
A  derisive  little  wind 

Executes  pas  de  chat  across  the  shaking  buds, 
And  my  eyes  play  tricks  on  my  ears, 
And  I  hear 

The  piercing,  deafening,  flaunting,  condemnation 
Of  vivid  angry  birds. 

"Ulysses''  in    Court 

by   Margaret  Anderson 

THE  trial  of  the  LUtle  Review  for  printing  a  masterpiece  is 
now  over — lost,  of  course,  but  if  any  one  thought  there 
was  a  chance  of  our  winning  ...  in  the  United  States 
of  America. 

It  is  the  only  farce  I  ever  participated  in  with  any 
pleasure.  I  am  not  convivial,  and  I  am  usually  bored  or  outraged  by 
the  state  of  farce  to  which  unfarcical  matters  must  descend.  This 
time  I  had  resolved  to  watch  the  proceedings  with  the  charming  idea 
of  extracting  some  interest  out  of  the  fact  that  things  proceed  as  one 
knows  they  wlil  proceed.  There  is  no  possible  interest  in  this  fact,  but 
perhaps  one  can  be  enlivened  by  speculating  as  to  whether  they  will 
swerve  the  fraction  of  an  inch  from  their  predestined  stupidity. 

No,  this  cannot  engage  my  interest:  I  have  already  lived  througli 
the  stupidity.  So  how  shall  I  face  an  hour  in  a  court  room,  before 
three  judges  who  do  not  know  the  difference  between  James  Joyce 
and  obscene  postal  cards,  without  having  hysterics,  or  without  trying 
to  convince  them  that  the  words  "literature"  and  "obscenity"  can  not 
be  used  in  conjunction  any  more  than  the  words  "science"  and  "im- 
morality" can.  With  what  shall  I  fill  my  mind  during  this  hour  of 
redundant  human  drama?  Ah — I  shall  make  an  effort  to  keep  en- 
tirely silent,  and  since  I  have  never  under  attack  achieved  this  simple 
feat,  perhaps  my  mind  can  become  intrigued  with  the  accomplishment 
of  it. 

It  is  a  good  idea.  There  are  certain  civilized  people  who  pro- 
ceed entirely  upon  the  principle  that  to  protect  one's  self  from  attack 
is  the  only  course  of  action  open  to  a  decent  and  developed  human 
being.  My  brain  accepts  this  philosophy,  but  I  never  act  upon  it — • 
any  more  than  Ezra  Pound  does.  I  am  one  of  those  who  feels  some 
obscure  need  to  have  all  people  think  with  some  intelligence  upon  some 

But  I  am  determined,  during  this  unnecessary  hour  in  court,  to 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  23 

adopt  the  philosophy  of  self-preservation.     I  will  protect  my  sensi- 
bilities and  my  brain  cells  by  being  unhearing  and  untalkative. 

The  court  opens.  Every  one  stands  up  as  the  three  judges  enter. 
Why  must  I  stand  up  as  a  tribute  to  three  men  who  wouldn't  under- 
stand my  simplest  remark?  (But  this  is  reasoning,  and  I  am  deter- 
mined to  be  vacuous.) 

Our  attorney,  Mr.  John  Quinn,  begins  pertinently  by  telling 
who  James  Joyce  is,  what  books  he  has  written,  and  what  are  his 
distinguished  claims  as  a  man  of  letters.  The  three  judges  quite 
courteously  but  with  a  bewildered  impatience  inform  him  that  they 
can't  see  what  bearing  those  facts  have  on  the  subject — they  "don't 
care  who  James  Joyce  is  or  whether  he  has  written  the  finest  books  in 
the  world";  their  only  function  is  to  decide  whether  certain  passages 
of  "Ulysses"  (incidentally  the  only  passages  they  can  understand) 
violate  the  statute. —  (Is  this  a  commentary  on  ''Ul3'sses"  or  on  the 
minds  of  the  judges?)  But  I  must  not  dream  of  asking  such  a  ques- 
tion. My  function  is  silence.  Still,  there  is  that  rather  fundamental 
matter  of  who  is  the  author:^  Since  Jrt  is  the  person — /  But  this  is 
a  simplicity  of  logic — they  would  think  I  had  gone  mad. 

Mr.  Quinn  calls  literary  "experts"  to  the  stand  to  testify  that 
"Ulysses"  in  their  opinion  would  not  corrupt  our  readers.  The  opin- 
ions of  experts  is  regarded  as  quite  unnecessary,  since  they  know  only 
about  literature  but  not  about  law:  "Ulysses"  has  suddenly  become 
a  matter  of  law  rather  than  of  literature — I  grow  confused  again : 
but  I  am  informed  that  the  judges  are  being  especially  tolerant  to 
admit  witnesses  at  all — that  such  is  not  the  custom  in  the  special 
sessions  court. 

Mr.  John  Cowper  Powys  testifies  that  "Ulysses"  is  too  obscure 
and  philosophical  a  work  to  be  in  any  sense  corrupting.  (I  wonder, 
as  Mr.  Powys  takes  the  stand,  whether  his  look  and  talk  convey  to 
the  court  that  his  mind  is  in  the  habit  of  functioning  in  regions  where 
theirs  could  not  penetrate:  and  I  imagine  the  judges  saying:  "This 
man  obviously  knows  much  more  about  the  matter  than  we  do — the 
case  is  dismissed."  Of  course  I  have  no  historical  basis  for  expecting 
such  a  thing.     I  believe  it  has  never  happened. 

Mr.  Philip  Moeller  is  the  next  witness  to  testify  for  the  Little 

24  The     Little     Review 

Review,  and  in  attempting  to  answer  the  jxidges'  questions  with  intelli- 
gence he  asks  if  he  may  use  technical  terminology.  Permission  being 
given  he  explains  quite  simply  that  the  objectionable  chapter  is  an 
unveiling  of  the  subconscious  mind,         in  the 

Freudian  manner,  and  that  he  saw  no  possibility  of  these  revelations 
being  aphrodiasic  in  their  influence.  The  court  gasps,  and  one  of  the 
judges  calls  out,  "Here,  here,  you  might  as  well  talk  Russian.  Speak 
plain  English  if  you  want  us  to  understand  what  you're  saying."  Then 
they  ask  Mr.  Moeller  what  he  thinks  would  be  the  effect  of  the  ob- 
jectionable chapter  on  the  mind  of  the  average  reader.  Mr.  Moeller 
answers:  "1  think  it  would  mystify  him."  "Yes,  but  what  would 
be  the  effect?"  (I  seem  to  be  drifting  into  unconsciousness  /  Ques- 
tion— What  is  the  effect  of  that  which  mystifies?  Answer — Mystifi- 
cation. But  no  one  looks  either  dazed  or  humourous,  so  I  decide  that 
they  regard  the  proceedings  as  perfectly  sensible.) 

Other  witnesses  (among  them  the  publishers  of  the  Dial,  who 
valiantly  appeared  at  both  hearings)  are  waived  on  the  consideration 
of  their  testimony  being  the  same  as  already  given.  Mr,  Quinn  then 
talks  for  thirty  minutes  on  the  merits  of  James  Joyce's  work  in  terms 
the  court  can  understand:  "Might  be  called  futurist  literature"; 
"neither  written  for  nor  read  by  school  girls" ;  "disgusting  in  portions, 
perhaps,  but  no  more  so  than  Swift,  Rabelais,  Shakespeare,  the  Bible" ; 
"inciting  to  anger  or  repulsion  but  not  to  lascivious  acts";  and  as  a 
final  bit  of  suave  psychology  (nauseating  and  diabolical),  aimed  at 
that  dim  stirring  of  human  intelligence  which  for  an  instant  lights  up 
the  features  of  the  three  judges — "I  myself  do  not  understand 
'Ulysses' — I  think  Joyce  has  carried  his  method  too  far  in  this  ex- 
periment "... 

"Yes,"  groans  the  most  bewildered  of  the  three,  "it  sounds  to  me 
like  the  ravings  of  a  disordered  mind — I  can't  see  why  any  one  would 
want  to  publish  it." 

("Let  me  tell  you  why" — I  almost  leap  from  my  chair.  "Since 
I  am  the  publisher  it  may  be  apropos  for  me  to  tell  you  why  I  have 
wanted  to  publish  it  more  than  anything  else  that  has  ever  been  offered 
to  me.  Let  me  tell  you  why  I  regard  it  as  the  prose  masterpiece  of 
my  generation.     Let  me  tell  you  what  it's  about  and  why  it  was 

The     Little     Review 


written  and  for  whom  it  was  written  and  why  you  don't  understand  it 
and  why  it  is  just  as  well  that  you  don't  and  why  you  have  no  right 
to  pit  the  dulness  of  3'our  brains  against  the  fineness  of  mine  "     .     .) 

(I  suddenly  feel  as  though  I  had  been  run  over  by  a  subway 
train.  My  distinguished  co-publisher  is  pounding  me  violently  in 
the  ribs:  "Don't  try  to  talk;  don't  put  yourself  into  their  hands" — 
with  that  look  of  being  untouched  by  the  surrounding  stupidities 
which  sends  me  into  paroxysms.     I  smile  vacuously  at  the  court.) 

Mr.  Quinn  establishes,  apparently  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the 
judges,  that  the  offending  passages  of  "Ulysses"  will  revolt  but  not 
contaminate.  But  their  sanction  of  this  point  seems  to  leave  them 
vaguely  unsatisfied  and  they  state,  with  a  hesitation  that  is  rather 
charming,  that  they  feel  impelled  to  impose  the  minimum  fine  of  $100 
and  thus  to  encourage  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Vice. 

This  decision  establishes  us  as  criminals  and  we  are  led  to  an 
adjoining  building  where  another  bewildered  official  takes  our  finger- 
prints !  !  !  * 

Owing  to  editorial  mediation  as 
to  what  passages  must  be  deleted 
from  the  next  instalment  of 
"Ulysses"  Episode  XIV  will  not 
be  continued  until  next  month. 
M.  C.  A. 

*In  this  welter  of  crime  and  lechery,  both  Mr.  Sumner  and  the  judges 
deserve  our  thanks  for  one  thing:  our  appearance  seemed  to  leave  them  with- 
out any  doubts  as  to  our  personal  purity.  Some  of  my  "friends"  have  con- 
sidered me  both  insane  and  obscene,  I  believe,  for  publishing  Mr.  Joyce. 


by  Philippe  Sotipault 

UNE  enveloppe  dechiree  agrandit  ma  chambre. 
Je  bouscule  mes  souvenirs 
On  part. 
J'avais  oublie  ma  valise. 


L'AIRON  tisse  les  fils  telegraphiques 
et  la  source  chante  la  meme  chanson 
Au  rendezvous  des  cochers  I'aperitif  est  orange 
mais  les  mecaniciens,  des  locomotives  ont  les  yeux  blancs 
la  dame  a  perdu  son  sourive  dans  les  bois. 


TOUTE  la  ville  est  entree  dans  ma  chambre 
les  arbres  disparaissaient 
et  le  soir  s'attache  a  mes  doights 
Les  maisons  deviennent  des  transatlantiques 
le  bruit  de  la  mer  est  monte  jusqu'a  moi 
nous  arriverons  dans  deux  jours  au  Congo 
j'ai  franchi  I'Equateur  et  le  Tripique  du  Capricorne 
je  sais  qu'il  y  a  des  cottines  innombrables 
Notre  Dame  cache  le  Gaurizanker  et  les  aurores  boreales 

la  nuit  tombe  goutte  a  goutte 

j 'attends  les  heures 

Donnez  moi  cette  citromade  et  la  dernier  cigarette 

je  reorendroi  a  Paris. 

T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    Re  V  i  e  w  27 


J'apercus  le  souvenir  de  ta  voix  se  pencher 
IVIon  corps  bercait  mes  pensees 
les  fills  telegraphiques  s'enfuyaient 

Le  heurt  d'un  caillon  sonna  midi. 

Katrina  Silver  staff 

by  Djuna  Barnes 

^^"W"  "W'    T"  E  have  eaten  a  great  deal,  my  friend, against  the 

^/  m/  She  was  a  fine  woman,  hard,  magnificent,  cold, 

▼  T  Russian,  married  to  a  Jew,  a  doctor  on  the  East 

You  know  that  kind  of  woman,  pale,  large,  with  a  heavy  oval 

A  woman  of  'material' — a  lasting  personality,  in  other  words, 
a  'fashionable'  woman,  a  woman  who,  had  she  lived  to  the  age  of 
forty  odd,  would  have  sat  for  long  fine  hours  by  some  window,  over- 
looking some  desolate  park,  thinking  of  a  beautiful  but  lazy  means 
to  an  end. 

She  always  wore  large  and  stylish  hats,  and  beneath  them  her 
mouth  took  on  a  look  of  pain  at  once  proud,  aristocratic  and  lonely. 

She  had  studied  medicine — but  medicine  in  the  interest  of  ani- 
mals, she  was  a  good  horse  doctor — an  excellent  surgeon  on  the 
major  injuries  to  birds  and  dogs. 

In  fact  she  and  her  husband  had  met  in  a  medical  college  in 
Russia — she  had  been  the  only  woman  in  the  class,  the  only  one  of 
the  lot  of  them  who  smiled  in  a  strange,  hurt  and  sarcastic  way  when 

28  The    Little    Review 

The  men  in  the  class  treated  her  like  one  of  them,  that  is,  they 
had  no  cringing  mannerliness  about  their  approach,  they  lost  no  poise 
before  her,  and  tried  no  tricks  as  one  might  say. 

The  Silverstaffs  had  come  to  America,  they  had  settled  on  the 
East  Side,  among  'their  own  people'  as  he  would  say;  she  never  said 
anything  when  he  talked  like  this,  she  sat  passive,  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  but  her  nostrils  quivered,  and  somewhere  under  the  skin  of  her 
cheek  something  trembled. 

Her  husband  was  the  typical  Jewish  intellectual,  a  man  with 
stiff  short  graying  hair,  prominent  intelligent  and  kindly  eyes,  rather 
short,  rather  round,  always  smelling  of  Greek  salad  and  carbolic 
acid,  and  always  intensely  interested  in  new  medical  journals,  theories, 

He  was  a  little  dusty,  a  little  careless,  a  little  timid,  but  always 

They  had  been  in  America  scarcely  an  eight  months  before  the 
first  child  was  born,  a  girl,  and  then  following  on  her  heels  a  boy, 
and  then  no  more  children. 

Katrina  Silverstaff  stopped  having  her  children  as  abruptly  as 
she  had  begun  having  them;  something  complicated  had  entered  her 
mind,  and  where  there  are  definite  complications  of  the  kind  that  she 
suffered,  there  are  no  more  children. 

"We  have  eaten  a  great  deal,  my  friend,  against  the  day  of 
God,"  she  had  said  that. 

She  had  said  that  one  night,  sitting  in  the  dusk  of  their  office. 
There  was  something  inexpressibly  funny  in  their  sitting  together  in 
this  office,  with  its  globe  of  the  world,  its  lung  charts,  its  weighing 
machine,  its  surgical  chair,  and  its  bowl  of  ineffectual  gold  fish.  Some- 
thing inexpressibly  funny  and  inexpressibly  fecund,  a  fecundity  sup- 
pressed by  coldness,  and  a  terrible  determination — more  terrible  in 
that  her  husband  Otto  felt  nothing  of  it. 

He  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  had  he  been  a  little  more  sensitive 
he  would  have  been  very  glad  to  be  proud  of  her.  She  never  became 
confidential  with  him,  and  he  never  tried  to  overstep  this,  partly  be- 
cause he  was  unaware  of  it,  and  partly  because  he  felt  little  need  of 
a  closer  companionship. 

The     Little     Review  29 

She  was  a  fine  woman,  he  knew  that ;  he  never  thought  to  ques- 
tion anything  she  did,  because  it  was  little,  nor  what  she  said,  because 
it  was  less;  there  was  an  economy  about  her  existence  that  simply 
forbade  questioning.  He  felt  in  some  dim  way,  that  to  criticise  at 
all  would  be  to  stop  everything. 

Their  life  was  typical  of  the  East  Side  doctor's  life.  Patients  all 
day  for  him,  and  the  children  for  her  with  an  occasional  call  from 
someone  who  had  a  sick  bird.  In  the  evening  they  would 
sit  around  a  table  with  just  sufficient  food,  with  just  sufficient  silver 
and  linen,  and  one  luxury ;  Katrina's  glass  of  white  wine. 

Or  sometimes  they  would  go  out  to  dine,  to  some  koscher  place, 
where  everyone  was  too  friendly  and  too  ugly  and  too  warm,  and 
here  he  would  talk  of  the  day's  diseases  while  she  listened  to  the 
music  and  tried  not  to  hear  what  her  daughter  was  crying  for. 

He  had  always  been  a  'liberal,'  from  the  first  turn  of  the  cradle. 
In  the  freedom  of  the  people,  in  the  betterment  of  conditions,  he  took 
the  interest  a  doctor  takes  in  seeing  a  wound  heal. 

As  for  Katerina  Silverstaff,  she  never  said  anything  about  it. 
he  never  knew  what  she  really  thought,  if  she  thought  at  all;  it  did 
not  seem  necessary  for  her  to  do  or  say  anything,  she  was  fine  as  she 
was,  where  she  was.  On  the  other  hand  it  never  occurred  to  him  that 
she  would  not  hear,  with  calmness  at  least,  his  long  dissertations  on 

At  the  opening  of  this  story,  Katerina's  daughter  was  a  little 
girl  of  ten,  who  was  devoted  to  dancing,  and  who  lay  awake  at 
nights  worrying  about  the  shape  of  her  legs,  which  had  already  begun 
to  swell  with  a  dancer's  muscles. 

The  boy  was  nine,  thin,  and  wore  spectacles. 

And  of  course  what  happened  was  quite  unaccountable. 

A  man,  calling  himself  Castillion  Rodkin,  passed  through  one 
summer,  selling  Carlyle's  'Trench  Revolution."  Among  the  houses 
where  he  had  left  a  copy    was  the  house  of  Otto  Silverstaff. 

Katerina  had  opened  the  door,  the  maid  was  down  with  the 
measles,  and  the  doctor  was  busy  with  a  patient,  a  Jew  much  revered 
for  his  poetry, 

30  The    Little    Review 

She  never  bought  anything  of  peddlers,  and  she  seldom  said 
more  than  "no  thank  you."  In  this  case  she  neither  said  "thank  you," 
nor  closed  the  door — instead  she  held  it  open,  standing  a  little  aside 
for  him  to  pass,  and,  utterly  astonished,  he  did  pass,  waiting  behind 
her  in  the  hall  for  orders. 

"We  will  go  into  the  study,"  she  said,  "my  husband  is  busy." 

"I  was  selling  Bibles  last  year,"  he  remarked,  "but  they  do  not 
go  down  in  this  section." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  see,"  and  she  moved  before  him  into  the 
heavy  damp  parlor  which  was  never  unshuttered  and  which  was  never 
used.    She  reached  up  and  turned  on  one  solitary  electric  light. 

Castillion  Rodkin  might  have  been  any  nationality  in  the  world ; 
this  was  partly  from  having  travelled  in  all  countries,  and  also  from 
a  fluid  temperament — little  was  fixed  or  firm  in  him,  a  necessary 
quality  in  a  salesman. 

Castillion  Rodkin  was  below  medium  height,  thin  and  bearded 
with  a  pale,  almost  white  growth  of  hair.  He  was  peculiarly  colour- 
less, his  eyes  were  only  a  shade  darker  than  his  temples,  a  vague 
color,  and  very  restless. 

She  said  simply,  "We  must  talk  about  religion." 

And  with  an  awkwardness  unusual  to  him  he  asked  "Why?" 

"Because,"  she  said  in  a  strained  voice,  making  a  hurt  gesture, 
"it  is  so  far  from  me." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  of  course,  and  lifting  one  thin 
leg  in  its  white  trousers  he  placed   it  carefully  over  the  other. 

She  \vas  sitting  opposite  him,  her  head  turned  a  little  to  one 
side,  not  looking  at  anything.  "You  see,"  she  said  presently,  "I  want 
religion  to  become  out  of  the  reach  of  the  few." 

"Become's  a  queer  word,"  he  said. 

"It  is  the  only  word,"  she  answered,  and  there  was  a  slight  irri- 
tittion  in.  her  voice,  "because  it  is  so  irrevocably  for  the  many." 

"Yes,"  he  said  mechanically,  and  reached  up  to  his  beard  and 
left  his  hand  there  under  a  few  strands  of  hair. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on  simply,  "I  can  come  to  the  point.  For 
me,  everything  is  a  lie — I  am  not  telling  this  to  you  because  I  need 
your  help,  I  shall  never  need  help,"  she  said,  turning  her  eyes  on  his 

The    Little    Review  31 

understand  that  from  the  beginning — " 

-"Beginning,"  he  said  in  a  loud  voice  suddenly. 

"From  the  beginning,"  she  repeated  calmly,  "right  from  the 
very  start,  not  help  but  hindrance,  I  need  enough  hindrance,  a  total 
obstacle,  otherwise  I  cannot  accomplish  it." 

"Accomplish  what,  madame?"  he  asked  and  took  his  hand  from 
under  his  beard. 

"That  is  my  affair,  mine  alone,  that  you  must  not  question,  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  you,  you  are  only  a  means  to  an  end." 

And  he  said,  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

She  smiled,  a  sudden  smile,  and  under  her  cheek  something  flick- 
ered. "You  can  do  nothing,"  she  said  and  stood  up.  "I  must  always 
do  it  all — yes,  I  shall-  be  your  mistress — wait,"  she  said  raising  her 
hand,  and  there  was  anger  and  pride  in  her.  "Do  not  intrude  now  by 
word  or  sign,  but  tommorrow  you  will  come  to  me — that  is  enough — 
that  is  all  you  can  do,"  and  in  this  word  'all'  he  felt  a  limit  on  him- 
self that  he  had  never  known  before,  and  he  was  frightened  and  dis- 
quieted and  unhappy. 

And  he  came  thf  next  day,  cringing  a  little,  fawning,  uneasy,  and 
she  would  not  see  him — she  sent  word  "I  do  not  need  you  yet,"  and 
he  called  again  the  next  day  and  learned  that  she  was  out  of  town, 
and  then  one  Sunday  she  was  in  to  him. 

She  said  quietly  to  him,  as  if  she  were  preparing  him  for  a  great 
disappointment,  "I  have  deliberately,  very  deliberately,  removed 
remorse  from  the  forbidden  fruit,"  and  he  was  abject  suddenly  and 

"There  will  be  no  thorns  for  you,"  she  went  on  in  a  cold  abrupt 
voice.  "You  will  miss  that,  but  do  not  presume  to  show  it  in  my 

"Also  my  floor  is  not  the  floor  on  which  you  may  crawl,"  she 
continued,  "and  I  do  not  permit  you  to  suffer  while  I  am  in  the 
room — and,"  she  added  unfastening  her  brooch  slowly  and  precisely, 
"I  dislike  all  spiritual  odours." 

"Are  we  all  strange?"  he  whispered. 

"It  takes  more  than  will  to  attain  to  madness." 


32  T  he    Little    Review 

Then  she  was  silent  for  a  while,  thinking. 

"I  want  to  suffer,"  he  murmured,  and  trembled  again.  . 

"We  are  all  gross  at  times,  but  this  is  not  your  time." 

"I  could  follow  you  into  the  wilderness." 

"I  would  not  miss  you." 

And  it  was  said  in  a  terrible  forbidding  voice. 

"I  suffer  as  a  birthright — I  want  it  to  be  something  more  my 
own  than  that." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  said. 

"Does  one  ever  destroy  oneself  who  is  utterly  disinterested?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Presently  she  said,  "I  love  my  husband — I  want  you  to  know 
that,  it  doesn't  matter,  but  I  want  you  to  know  that,  and  that  I  am 
content  with  him,  and  quite  happy " 

"Yes,"  Castillion  Rodkin  answered  and  began  trembling  again, 
holding  on  to  the  sides  of  the  bed. 

"But  there  is  something  in  me,"  she  continued,  "that  is  very 
mournful  because  it  is  being." 

He  could  not  answer  and  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 

"There  is  another  thing,"  she  said  with  abrupt  roughness,  "that 
I  must  insist  on,  that  is  that  you  will  not  insult  me  by  your  presence 
while  you  are  in  this  room." 

He  tried  to  stop  his  weeping  now,  and  his  body  grew  tense, 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "some  people  drink  poison,  and  some 
take  a  knife,  and  others  drown,  I  take  you." 

In  the  very  early  dawn,  she  sat  up  with  a  strange  smile.  "Will 
you  smoke?"  she  said,  and  lit  him  a  cigarette.  Then  she  withdrew 
into  herself,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  mahogany  boards,  her  hands 
in  her  lap. 

And  there  was  a  little  ease,  and  a  little  comfort  in  Castillion 
Rodkin,  and  he  turned,  drawing  up  one  foot,  thrusting  his  hand 
beneath  his  beard,  slowly  smoking  his  cigarette. 

"Does  one  regret?"  he  asked,  and  the  figure  of  Katrina  never 
moved,  nor  did  she  seem  to  hear. 

"You  know,  you  frightened  m.e — -last  night."  he  went  on,  lying 

T  h  e    Li  1 1  le     Review  33 

on  his  back  now  and  looking  at  the  ceiling.  "I  almost  became  some- 
thing— something." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Shall  the  beasts  of  the  field  and  the  birds  of  the  air  forsake 
thee?"  he  said  gloomily,  then  brighth'.  "Shall  any  man  forsake  thee?" 

Katrina  Silverstaff  remained  as  she  was,  but  under  her  cheek 
something  quivered. 

The  dawn  was  very  near  and  the  street  lamps  had  gone  out,  a 
milk  cart  rattled  across  the  square,  and  passed  up  a  side  street. 

"One  out  of  many,  or  only  one?" 

He  put  his  cigarette  out,  he  was  beginning  to  breathe  with  diffi- 
culty, he  was  beginning  to  shiver. 


He  turned  over,  got  up,  stood  on  the  floor. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  say?"  he  began,  and  went  a  little  away 
and  put  his  things  on. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?" 

And  now  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  him,  and  his  chin  trembled. 


He  tried  to  come  toward  her,  but  he  found  himself  near  the 
door  instead. 

"I'm  nothing,"  he  said,  and  turned  toward  her,  bent  slightly; 
he  wanted  to  kiss  her  feet — but  nothing  helped  him. 

"You've  taken  everything  now,  now  I  cannot  feel,  I  do  not  suffer 
— "  he  tried  to  look  at  her — and  succeeded  finally  after  a  long  time. 

He  could  see  that  she  did  not  know  he  was  in  the  room. 

Then  something  like  horror  entered  him.  and  with  a  soft  swift 
running  gait  he  reached  the  door,  turned  the  handle  and  was  gone. 

A  few  days  later,  at  dusk,  for  his  heart  was  the  heart  of  a  dog, 
he  came  into  Katrina's  street,  and  looked  at  the  house. 

A  single  length  of  crepe,  bowed,  hung  at  the  door. 

From  that  day  he  began  to  drink  heavily,  he  got  to  be  quite  a 
nuisance  in  the  cafes,  he  seldom  had  money  to  pay,  he  was  a  fearless 
beggar,  almost  insolent,  and  once  when  he  saw  Otto  Silverstafif  sitting 
alone  in  a  corner,  with  his  two  children,  he  laughed  a  loud  laugh 
and  burst  into  tears. 



Margaret    Anderson 

Foreign   Editors: 

John  Rodker  Jules  Romains 

Advisory    Board 


Sum?2er  Versus  James  Joyce 
by  HatTtet  Monroe 

I  WANT  to  send  a  word  of  cheer  for  your  courage  in  the  fight 
against  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Vice.  My  father  was 
a  lawyer,  and  his  blood  in  me  longs  to  carry  the  battle  to  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  order  to  find  out  whether 
the  Constitution  permits  the  assumption  of  a  self-appointed  group  of 
citizens,  of  a  restriction  of  the  freedom  of  the  press  which  only  the 
state,  through  proper  legal  channels,  should  have  any  right  even  to 
attempt.     I  wish  you  a  triumphant  escape  out  of  their  clutches. 

T  h  e    Li  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w  35 

Lawrence  Atkinson 
by  Horace  Shipp 


^^rr^HE  MADNESS  OF  THE  ARTS"  has  driven  W.  R.  Titter- 
ton  to  the  columns  of  the  English  Review  with  Part  One  of  a 
metrical  diatribe  which  one  suspects  will  become  vitriolic  about 
vers  libre  and  abstract  painting  bj^  Part  Three.  Truth  to  tell  the  arts 
always  were  mad  if  the  term  connotes  their  continual  wandering 
from  the  watch-fires  of  tradition  into  the  trackless  places  of  grow- 
ing human  consciousness.  Sane  art  is  usually  shopkeeping — trade  in 
beauty:  the  art  school  with  the  courage  to  open  a  department  de- 
voted to  salesmanship  will  affect  an  advance  both  in  membership  and 
honesty.  But  the  big  people  in  art  have  usually  wandered  away 
from  the  counter  just  before  the  professors  in  literature  and  the  fine 
arts  have  classified  and  labeled  the  goods. 

In  this  tradition  of  deserting  the  traditional,  the  movement  of 
pictorial  and  sculptural  art  from  the  phase  of  representation  to  that 
of  complete  abstraction  has  been  an  orderly  and  inevitable  progres- 
sion: orderly  and  inevitable,  because  once  the  principal  of  subjectivism 
is  admitted  in  art  (as  it  was  in  the  sentimental  selectiveness  and 
idealism  of  the  romantic  paint  photographers)  it  moves  quite  natur- 
ally through  impressionism,  post-impressionism,  futurism,  cubism, 
neo-vorticism,  and  every  other  "ism"  which  yet  sleeps  in  the  mind 
of  man. 

As  Wyndham  Lewis  questioned  the  architects,  the  problem 
always  is  "Where  is  your  vortex?"  So  long  as  a  man's  art  revolved 
around  the  pleasant  portrayal  of  external  appearances  truth  to  those 
appearances  and  that  pleasanteness  must  be  the  test.  But  alwavs 
there  had  been  even  among  artists  the  wise  who  realised  that  they 
had  some  more  useful  task  to  hand  than  the  making  of  replicas  in 
some  dead  material  of  the  things  of  the  vital  universe.  At  last, 
however,  the  tricks  of  the  trade  became  so  obvious  that  these  wise 
concluded  that  what  was  not  worth  doing  so  well  was  not  worth 
doing  at  all. 

36  The    Little    Review 

One  remembers  a  play  of  Rudolf  Besier's:  A  party  of  Cockneys 
invade  the  country;  one  by  one  they  grow  conscious  of  new 
phenomena;  each  murmurs,  "Cows  an'  'orses  an'  things,"  the  audience 
rocked  with  laughter.  The  analogy?  Eminent  Academicians  spend- 
ing their  distinguished  careers  murmuring  "Cows  an'  'orses  an' 
things"  in  paint  (sometimes  achieving  the  final  d  and  the  aspirate). 

That  is  why  the  new  movements  matter;  that  is  why  abstract 
art  and  Lawrence  Atkinson  matter.  It  is  somethmg  more  than  the 
reiteration  of  the  existence  of  things — it  is  the  assertion  of  basic 
forces  in  ^e  universe  and  of  basic  ideas  in  the  mind  of  the  artist. 
Atkinson's  work  depicts  both  and  establishes  their  relationship.  Thus 
he  deals  not  in  surfaces  and  the  simple  facts  of  optics — appearances — 
hut  in  form  and  the  known  dynamics  beneath  surfaces.  More  im- 
portant still,  he  deals  in  the  merchandise  of  the  mind,  which  releases 
his  conceptions  alike  from  the  three  dimensional  of  space  and  the 
single  point  of  time.  That  is  where  the  new  art,  escaping  from  the 
portrayal  of  one  space  at  one  time  into  the  eternal  present  and  limit- 
less horizon  of  the  human  intelligence,  can  achieve  so  much.  That 
is  where  it  may  fail  for  the  recesses  of  mentality  are  so  remote,  so 
-jh       0      ^  unique  and  individual  that  there  is  danger  of  the  artist  who  depends 

^^^■^(1  ^  no  longer  upon  the  safe  link  of  visual  appearances,  removing  his  point 
of  interest  so  far  as  to  lose  contact  altogether  with  his  audience; 
sharing  the  loneliness  of  God  in  looking  on  his  work  and  seeing 
that  it  was  good. 

Here  it  is  that  the  search  for  the  symbol  commences,  and  that 
devotion  to  technique  which  must  always  play  an  important  part, 
and  which  in  the  case  of  the  old  schools  had  become  exalted  from 
a  means  to  an  end  in  itself. 

With  Atkinson's  work  the  search  for  a  suitable  medium  of 
communication  between  his  own  mind  and  that  of  others  has  led 
him  to  reject  the  sophisticated  formula  of  some  of  the  recent  schools 
and  to  depend  for  his  effect  upon  a  use  of  line,  form  and  colour  to 
which    generations    of    race    consciousness    have    given    a    universal 


Often  it  is  true  the  complexity  of  his  own  mind  assumes  a  power 
of   instinctive  comprehension   in  that  of  his   audience  which   is  not 


38  T  h  e    L  i  1 1 1  e    R  e  V  i  e  w 

forthcoming,  and  the  more  difficult  of  his  works  (particularly  the 
pictures)  lose  their  range  so  that  their  significance  passes  over  the 
heads  of  onlookers. 

Recently,  however,  Atkinson  has  turned  his  attention  to  sculp- 
ture, which  by  the  very  nature  of  the  medium  tends  to  broader  effects 
and  more  simple  statement  than  it  sister  art  of  painting.  The  illus- 
trations show  phases  of  Atkinson's  plastic  work:  the  one  where  he 
was  expressing  himself  in  a  formula  practically  geometrical,  which 
interesting  as  it  was  had  too  great  an  interest  in  the  mechanical 
structure  of  its  subjects,  the  other  which  aimed  at  expressing  an 
idea  as  nature  would  have  expressed  it  had  she  been  working  in  a 
medium  of  clay  or  stone  — a  significant  amorphism.  So  much  of  the 
recent  abstract  work  in  England  has  tended  to  be  mechanical. 
Granted  that  much  can  be  achieved  with  such  a  means  as  the  piece 
called  "In  the  Beginning"  shows.  Here  the  artist  has  been  interested 
in  somthing  more  vital  than  surface  or  even  structure ;  he  has  endowed 
"Ir  the  abstract  figure — half  human,  half  animal — with  a  prophetic  sense 

I  of  tragedy.     The  structural  lines  are  strong  and  heavy  in  token  of 

the  perfection  of  animal  strength.  In  striking  contrast  is  the  inertness 
of  head  and  hand:  the  hand  hanging  limply,  the  head  bowed  by  the 
realisation  of  good  and  evil,  its  melancholy  emphasised  by  the  sculp- 
tured pattern. 

It  is  this  emotional  value  in  Atkinson's  work  which  differentiates 
it  from  so  much  that  has  gone  hitherto  in  the  name  of  artistic  ab- 
straction. He  is  not  making  his  appeal  from  the  sophisticated  in- 
tellect to  intelligence  equally  sophisticated,  but  from  instinct  to  the 
instincts — a  safer  and  saner  thing  in  an  age  run  to  seed  in  mere 
cleverness.  Occasionally  Atkinson  himself  succumbs  to  the  tempta- 
tion and  works  out  a  concept  so  intellectually  that  it  misses  that  direct 
appeal  and  simplicity  which  was  the  vital  secret  of  early  art.  Usually, 
however,  he  deals  with  elemental  things,  simplifying  to  essentials, 
and  choosing  lines  which  have  so  long  spoken  to  the  sub-conscious- 
ness of  the  race  that  their  message  is  immediate  and  effective. 

The  picture  "Tranquille"  with  its  sense  of  sunlit  peace  and  the 
expressive  lines  of  the  body  bowing  to  an  acceptance,  the  studied 
relationship  of  the  figure  to   its  surroundings,   the  conventionalised 


40  The    Little    Review 

blue  bands  at  the  top  which  convey  distance  and  immensity  as  only 
blue  can — these  things  speak  as  easily  and  in  a  language  as  generally 
comprehensible  as  that  of  any  traditional  art. 

The  later,  and  I  think  the  most  interesting  phase  of  his  work 
is  that  which  I  have  called  "significant  amorphism" :  the  sculpture 
which  aims  at  direct  expression  of  ideas  in  forms  which  are  their 
natural  incarnation.  "Growth"  is  a  tyical  piece  of  this  kind.  The 
heavy,  simple  lines  of  the  earth-base,  the  vital  upward  movement 
(harmony  achieved  by  like  impulse)  the  complexity  in  the  later 
stages  of  development  when  the  lines  diverge  but  are  still  governed 
by  truth  to  their  own  relationship  to  a  predestined  paralellism  and  a 
movement  back  toward  the  central  purpose. 

The  three  examples  will  serve. 

An  eminent  critic  writing  recently  of  Atkinson  salted  his  ap- 
preciation with  a  doubt  as  to  whether  the  art  would  ever  becom': 
popular.  The  only  art  which  has  ever  deserved  that  name  has  been 
this  basic  art  which  makes  its  appeal  to  the  instincts  and  the  sub- 
consciousness. That  is  why  I  believe  that  his  work  will  find  ac- 
ceptance. He  is  not  working  on  a  basis  of  appeal  merely  to  the  super 
intellectuals  but  along  lines  of  universal  appeal  and  capable  of  infinite 
development  and  expression. 

Apropos  art  and  its  trials  legal  and  spiritual, 
by  Emmy  V.  Sandei's 

IF  THE  puritan  were  nothing  but  a  puritan  and  the  philistinc 
nothing  but  a  philistine,  they  would  leave  the  art  world  alto- 
gether alone — like  the  navvy,  the  farmhand,  the  greengrocer 
and  all  of  that  species  that  claims  no  relation  to  art  whatever  and 
is  perfectly  contented  to  remain  densely  ignorant  about  such  matters 

The  trouble  starts  with  "Culture."    The  sort  of  culture  that 
does  claim  a  relation  and  professes  tender  feelings  in  the  direction  of 


42  The    Little    Revi 

art — provided  the  art  in  question  is  of  a  date  anterior  to  1900,  at  the 
latest;  and  provided  there  does  not  cling  to  it  an  odour  of  rebellion 
that  not  even  the  museum-smell  of  time  has  been  able  to  change  into 
an  odour  of  unmixed  sanctit}  ;  and  provided  it  is  not  too  grimly  and 
uncompromisingly  art  alone  without  the  accompaniment  or  the  dis- 
guise of  other  elements  that  make  it  palatable  to  the  cultured.  Furth- 
ermore, if  very  subtle  it  must  have  been  coarsened ;  if  very  strong  it 
must  have  been  emasculated  at  the  hands  of  professorial  Authority 
and  must  be  liable  to  popularization  in  print  and  photograph.  All 
these  conditions  being  fulfilled  and  1900  given  as  an  extreme.     .     .     . 

Oh,  the  homes  of  these  art-loving  cultured  people — where  lily- 
like Botticelli  Madonnas  languish  at  you  over  mantel-shelves;  where 
you  find  Rembrandt's  mother  and  Whistler's  mother  and  the 
cathedral  of  Rheims  and  Shelley  and  Beethoven  sonatas  and  a  Burne 
Jones  and  and — the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Oh,  the  deadness  and  the 
dullness  and  the  blindness!  Oh,  the  plague  of  an  "appreciation"  that 
appreciates  in  a  work  of  art — whether  a  temple  of  the  times  of 
Rameses  the  Great  or  a  page  of  Conrad — everything  except  the  art 
element,  the  aesthetic  vitality  of  the  thing  considered. 

This  tribe  of  the  cultured  approaches  an  aesthetic  phenomenon 
conscientiously  equipped  with  facts,  information,  standards  of  com- 
parison, borrowed  values,  good  intentions.  There  is  nothing  lacking 
in  the  outfit — except  the  one  and  only 'essential :  inner  experience.  It 
is  convinced  that  it  is  convinced  that  A  is  a  great  poet  and  B  a  great 
sculptor  and  that  it  gets  something  out  of  the  presence  and  the  con- 
tact of  these  greatnesses  (which  it  does:  viz.,  the  wrong  thing).  It 
believes  that  art  is  theory  nicely  applied — as  a  good  engine 
is  mechanics  nicely  applied ;  a  matter  of  teaching,  prece- 
dent and  "culture" ;  not  a  matter  of  spontaneous  vitality  and  aesthetic 
emotion  forcing  its  own  peculiar  form.  The  cultured  philistine  is 
heteronomous  by  nature.  The  vague,  third  hand,  falsely  focussed 
satisfaction  he  derives  from  art  knows  nothing  of  inherent  laws  and 
irresistible  organic  growth.  He  does  not  understand — never  can, 
never  will  understand — that  before  each  new  art  form  as  a  whole  and 
before  each  separate  product  of  art  and  before  each  artistic  individu- 
ality as  such,  constant  re-adjustment  of  mental  approach  is  required. 

The    Little    Review  43 

He — or  rather  his  epidermis — contacts  everything  in  the  same  way 
and  with  the  same  demands  and  expectations. 

Sometimes  he  mentions  the  artist  as  a  being  different  from  him- 
self, a  being  of  quicker  vibrations,  more  sensitive  perceptions  and 
unusual  waj^s  of  contacting  life  and  transmitting  life  experience.  But 
at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  denies  that  the  artist  is  di..  rent  from 
himself.  Lacking  imagination,  how  can  he  conceive  of  that  which  is 
not  a  part  of  his  world  and  his  mental  equipment?  Therefore  he 
treats  the  artist  and  his  activities  necessarily  as  he  treats  himself:  a 
thing  onto  which  empty  generalities  and  inflexible  rules  and  regula- 
tions can  be  pasted  and  stuck  from  the  outside. 

Strange,  this.  It  would  never  occur  to  this  intelligent  and  cul- 
tured person  that  he  might  interfere  and  play  the  judge  between 
two  Chinamen,  by  merely  babbling  things  in  his  own  tongue,  with- 
out the  slightest  knowledge  of  Chinese  that  might  enable  him  first 
to  find  out  what  are  the  issues  at  stake  and  what  is  really  "going  on." 
He  never  suspects  that  art  has  a  language  of  its  own;  a  language  not 
of  words  only,  but  of  subtle  reactions  and  ever  shifting  valuations 
taking  place  in  the  depths  of  the  artist  soul — and  that  a  fair  amount 
of  knowledge  of  that  language  is  indispensable  for  knowing  what  is 
at  stake.  He  suspects  still  less  that  this  language,  however,  is  a  matter 
of  birthright  and  cannot  be  acquired  by  "butting  in." 

So  he  goes  on,  interfering  and  talking.  Talking — forever  beside 
the  point.  And  in  his  actual  interference  with  mental  and  aesthetic 
processes  backed  up  by  material  and  physical  power — the  last  "argu- 
ment" of  his  cultured  self. 

Once  upon  a  time — once  upon  a  dark  benighted  time — learned 
judges  and  the  then  "cultured  ones"  they  represented,  innocent  of 
psychology,  of  pathology,  of  scientific  analysis  and  spiritual  endeavor, 
applied  instruments  of  torture  to  the  flesh  of  other  human  beings 
whose  mental  states  and  reactions  they  did  not,  could  not,  understand. 
All  with  the  laudable  intention  of  driving  out  the  devil — the  devil 
of  unfortunate  insanity  or  luminous  sanity,  as  the  case  might  be — and 
of  preventing  contagion.  But  that  was  a  few  hundred  years  ago — 
and  we  don't  torture  bodies  any  more.     .     .     . 

Quousque  tandem.  Cultured  Philistine? 


44  T  he    Little    Review 

Mr.  Rodke?^  and  Moder?i  F?^e7ich  Poetry 
by  Muriel  Ciolkowska 

WERE  one  to  write  every  time  one  reads  rubbish  in  news- 
papers one  might  do  nothing  else  in  one's  life,  but  one 
has  a  duty  towards  a  paper  which  publishes  one's  own 
name,  therefore  the  following: 

"Poetry,"  asserts  Mr.  John  Rodekr  in  your  last,  "dead  in 
France  since  Verlaine — with  only  the  exception  of  Apollinaire  and 
de  Gourmont — -appears  to  be  looking  up  with  M.  Louis  Aragon." 
The  quotations  show  what  Mr.  Rodker  means  by  "live"  poetry.  But, 
as  he  does  not  quote  Gourmont,  I  am  free  to  say  that  this  great  prose- 
writer — who  sometimes  wrote  verse  not  at  all  like  M.  Aragon — is 
hardly  claimed  as  one  of  them  by  poets  not  "alive"  though  I  think 
they  would  say  that  as  such  he  came  nearer  to  them  than  does  M. 
Aragon.  The  first  part  of  this  sentence  is  information;  the  second 
an  opinion.  I  am  also  free  to  object  to  a  general  cemetery  being 
made  of:  Henri  de  Regnier,  Anna  de  Noaiiles,  Paul  Claudel. 
Guy-Charles  Cros  (the  son),  Renee  Vivien,  Charles 
Peguy,  Lucie  Delarue-Mardrus,  Charles  Vildrac,  Spire, 
Andre  Salmon,  etc.,  which  is  really  too  ridiculous.  I  leave  a  margin 
for  other  protestators  to  fill  with  names  of  those  who  wrote  contem- 
poraneously with  or  have  written  since  Verlaine  and  whom  the  world 
ventures  to  qualify  by  the  same  term  as  Mr.  Rodker  applies  to  M. 
Aragon,  whom  I  can  hardly  imagine  will  survive  Mr.  Rodker's  praise. 
If  Mr.  Rodker  has  no  liking  for  modern  French  poetry  why 
does  he  trouble  to  write  about  it? 
Paris,  January  6,  1921. 

To  Mina  Loy 
hy  John  Rodker 


T  IS  too  bad.  My  own  pet  serpent  turns  upon  me,  and  if  you 
only  knew  with  what  incredible  devotion  she  has  been  nursed 
in  my  bosom.    And  why  has  she  bitten  me?    Because  I  can  love 

The     Little     Review  45 

her  like  a  frog,  or  can  I?  Yet  were  I,  regardless  of  consequences  to 
my  more  delicate  anatomy,  to  love  in  a  froggy  way  the  carcase  of 
American  poets  and  poetesses  whose  very  very  cast-iron  entrails  have 
so  lately  been  sung  by  the  noble  baroness,  would  not  my  very  froggy 
embrace  strenuously  impel  it  to  that  not  too  remote  star  on  which 
it  has  how  long  and  how  painfully  striven  to  hitch  itself?  Surely; 
for  even  Miss  Loy  must  know  what  the  probable  upshot  of  such  action 
would  be.  Still,  Mina,  though  you  are  not  "big  with  gentle  yielding" 
(oh  not  not  not  in  a  frogg}'  way)  now  I  know  Kreymborg  has  written 
lines  as  good  as  that  I  take  back  humbly  all  I  have  said  about  him. 
As  for  Donald  Evans  you  have  quite  missed  the  point,  and  herbarium 
is  still  herbarium.     Froggy  greetings  to  the  fish. 

— How  jolly  that  the  snake  charmer  so  gracefully  parries  his  pet 
snake's  indulgence  in  a  little  buffoonery.  And  so  we  can  laugh  to- 
gether for  a  moment,  while  Mr.  Kreymborg  clamours  against  free 

John  Rodker — as  one  European  to  another,  Mina  Loy  salutes 

you.]  MINA  LOY. 

The  Wind-flowers  of  AsklepiadeSy  and  Poems  of 
Poseidippos;  The  Poems  of  Melea^ar  of  Gadara 
Poets'  Translation  Series  Second  Set,  Nos,  5  and 
6.     The  Rgoist,     2-  and  2-6  net, 
by  Ma?y  Butts 

I  HAD  been  re-reading  the  "Aphrodite"  of  Pierre  Louijs  in  an 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  induce  a  little  excitement.  (One  has 
nothing  to  say  against  M.  Loujs  as  a  translator,  and  the  "Chan- 
sons de  Bilitis"  are  a  most  agreeable  evocation,  but  the  historical 
romance  begotten  by  the  modern  mind  on  the  mirror  of  the  past  is 
always  base-born.  I  am  not  thinking  of  "Salambo"  or  "The  Brook 
Kerith"  but,  reluctantly,  of  every  other  serious  narrative  reconstruc- 

46  The    Little    Review 

tion  I  have  ever  read.) 

But  "Aphrodite"  is  sufficient  to  show  that  it  is  not  enough  to 
love  3'our  period  or  proportion  out  its  constituents — (two  little 
Lesbians,  one  magnificent  and  one  ageing  hetaira,  two  stoics,  an 
epicurean,  and  a  person  with  doubts  about  the  whole  affair) — not 
enough  to  take  a  clairvoyant  perception  of  the  age's  beautiful  objects 
and  their  common  use;  you  will  only  succeed  in  writing  about  your 
period,  and  the  professor  with  style  and  imagination  will  put  you  in 
your  place. 

M.  Louys  had  a  correct  idea.  He  knew  about  the  hieratic  value 
women  set  on  their  beauties,  from  the  most  obvious  to  the  rtiost 
intimate.  In  the  opening  chapters  his  courtesan  catalogues  her  love- 
liness to  the  accompaniment  of  confirmation  by  her  favorite  slave. 
She  works  downwards  from  the  rich  hair  by  which  she  was  known 
to  the  more  practical  part  of  her  accomplishment : 

"Thy  tongue  is  the  bloody  dagger  that  has  made  the 
wound  of  tliy  mouth." 

"My  tongue  is  inlaid  with  precious  stones.  It  is  red 
with  the  sheen  of  my  lips."    .     .    . 

"Thy  thighs  are  two  white  elephants'  trunks." 

"My  feet  are  two  nenuphar  leaves  upon  the  water." 
.  .  .    There  was  a  silence.    .     .     .    The  slave  bowed  to  the 
ground.    "It  is  like  a  purple  flower.    .    .    .     It  is  appalling. 
It  is  the  face  of  the  Medusa." 
And  so  on.     Now  listen  to  the  contemporary  voice: 

Plangon  has  laid  in  the  vestibule  of  Kypris'  temple  a 
purple  riding- whip  and  shining  reins  which  helped  to  con- 
quer  Philainis. 

Bring  her,  beloved  Kypris,  glory  and  fame  without  end. 

This   inscription  for  a  grave: 

I  hold  Arkheanassa,  the  hetaira  of  Kolophon,  in  whose 
very  wrinkles  lov^  lived. 

-T  h  e    Lit  tl  e    Review  47 

For  those  who  prefer  It  under  a  different  formula : 

Pour  the  wine  and  say  again  and  again  and  yet  again 
say  Heliodora,  rningle  that  sweet  name  with  the  wine.  Give 
me  the  flower-crown  of  yesterday,  wet  with  perfume,  in 
memory   of  her. 

I  have  still  in  my  mind,  though  shamefacedly,  Lang's  version 
of  the  lament  for  that  same  Heliodora,  but  Mr.  Aldington's  is  prob- 
ably the  best  yet  made : 

/  give  thee  tears,  poor  tears,  all  that  is  left  ?ny  love, 
to  you,  Heliodora,  in  Hades  under  the  earth.  On  your 
tear-wet  grave  I  lay  the  memory  of  our  passion,  the  mem- 
ory of  our  affection.  .  .  . 

This  would  seem  to  say — 'write  about  the  life  of  your  age,  and 
trust  a  thousand  years  later  to  the  permanence  of  your  language,  the 
sympathy  of  your  translator.' 

^^  Scidpshiire^ 

My  Khrist  Kant  somethin'  be  done  about  this  man  George  G. 
Barnard.  It  aint  Mikel  Angerlo,  an'  it  aint  even  Rodin.  It's  just 
mashed  popatoz,  and  the  fog  end  of  the  last  censhury's  allegory. 
Before  he  spoils  all  that  good  marble  can't  somebody  tell  him  about 
Egypt  and  Assyria,  or  pay  his  ticket  so  he  can  go  look  at  some 
sculpshure  made  by  someon'  who  had  some  idea  of  stone  as  distinct 
from  oatmeal  mush  an  molarsses.  Hasn't  even  the  sense  of  stone  one 
finds  in  Barroque. — Abel  Sanders. 

The    Little    Review 

Thee  I  call''  Hamlet  of  JVedding-Ring' 

Criticism  of  IVilliam  Carlos  William's 
'^ Kora  in  Heir'  and  ivhy.., 

by  Else  von  Freytag-Loringhoven 

In  two  parts 

Part    I 


OT  to  be  sentimental — of  that  you  are  fearfully- too  fearfully  afraid 
to  escape  suspicion — flaunt  brazen  cloak  of  inexperience  right  side 


lining;  sentimentality. 
Male    inexperience=brutality — 
Reaction  to  life — ununderstood. 
Baffles — troubles — unable  to  handle. 
Strangers  in  country — set  in  to  live. 
No  explorers! 

Cast-aways — on  shore — shivering! 
Foreigners  forever! 
castaways  on  shore — shivering! 

Scant   cover   cloak — no   other   garment   fashioned   for   fear   to  go    get — live 
merry — die  trying. 

different  shade  of  cloak  prompted  by  sex. 
malebrute — intoxicated — turns   "weeping  willow"   invariably!     Outside  cloak 

tatters — caution — tottering — (malebluster:  "squared  shoulders":  I  read 

All  Story  Weekly  regularly) — lining  visible. 
Inexperience  shines  forth  in  sentimentality — that  masqueraded   in   brutality: 

Never  strength  is  brutal — 
— unhesitating    acknowledgement    of    necessity — removing    infected    limb    by 

Action   starting   from   brain — without    noise — bluster — bluff. 
Strength  not  moans — wails — voice   of   indecision — weakness. 
Strength :     decision — realizes     trouble — remedy — instinctively — empiracally — 

scientifically — in   accord — acts — hence — never    regrets. 
Regrets:  blind  mental  orbs. 
Quiet  child  of  brain — logic:  European  war. 

T  he    Little    Review  49 

Moral    strength    of    scientist — surgeon — physician    of    degree.      Vision. 
Brutality:  child  of  denseness — inability  to  feel,  think  clean — lack  of  vision — 

vulgar  blood-fogged  brain — run  amuck! 
Despair  of  helplessness  to  escape  blindness  of  jungle  vines  of  thought  tangled 

— of   waste   barren,    unfertile — violent    action — noise — clamour: 
American  lynchings. 

To  undeveloped  sentimentalist  strength  appears  cruel — as  all  life  does  to  fool. 
Life   never   is  cruel — brutal — gentle — sympathetic — 
inhuman — impersonal — super-intelligence  ! 
Logic — pure. 

Mathematical   justice   of  scale   balancing   universe. 
No  one  is — does  not  receive  to  last  grain  value  of  what  pays  power — that 

weighs — tests  coin. 
Who  pays  cheap — receives  tawdry — counterfeiters  step  off  fake-value  in  lap. 
Culture:  experience.     Flimsy  cloak   of   shivering   pauper — coward — replaced 

by  glittering  armour  of  knight — poised   upon  strength — knowledge. 
That  aristocracy — 

value  for  value:  daring  for  treasure — valour  for  deed. 
True    to    formula — male    brute    intoxicated    bemoans    world — (into    that    he 

never  stepped) — his  existence — all  existence! 
Example: — Hamlet  of  Wedding-Ring: 
"WhatshallforFlosh — agh  ?        eckshishtensh — eck — eck — eck — shish — damn  ! — 

life  damn!  wife  damn!  art  damhc!!!     Hellshotashhell — " 
Elaborately   continued    swing   on    trapeze    in    "circus   of    art"    following   this 

article — if  tempted. 
In  vino  Veritas. 
Try  it— W.  C. 

Old  observations  minted  wisdom.     So  old — handled — lose  impression. 
True — profundity. 
Subconscious — unknown  reason  for  prohibition  in  this  country  that  never  is — 

has  been — run  by  intellect — sagacity — wisdom. 
Shortsighted  people  seeing  as  far  as  finger  length. 
Boil  proclaims  disease — stop  boil! 
Look  pretty— quick!    paint! — powder — !  perchance  culture  will  be  deceived— 

greet  us  as  civilization — invite  us  into  ancient  castle   aloft. 
Bluff— bluff— damn  bluff! 

No  time — no  time — no  time  to  fasten  roots  downward — become  civilized  nat- 
urally— inside    slow    progress — chemical    logic — 
Let's  appear  it — outside! 
Put  it  on! 

N'est  ce  pas — mon  bon  ami,  W.  C.  ? 
Americans   not   possessing   tradition — not   born    within    truth's    lofty    echoing 

walls — born  on  void— background  of  barren  nothingness— handle  such 

50  T  he    Little    Review 

truth's  coin — picked  up — flippantly! 

S  nous  ess  of  mind — bad  for  business:  flip  it — be  empty — 

"Forget  it" — 


Forgot  everything — to  avoid  trouble." 

Tradition — culture — responsibility — pride — honour:  troublesome:  smile  sillily 

wise ! 
By  problems  stalked — unvanquished — fattening — wary. 
By  avalanche  destroyed! 
Lusty  beast  massed  upon  prey  exhausted — 
ostrich — head   in   dollarheap. 
Life  supreme  —  conquers  —  destroys:  sophistication — flippancy — sarcasm — 

weapon  of  crudity — fatigue. 
Paper  fortress  of  educated  mental  coward — bloodpauper:  vulgarian  disguised 

knight  vanguished:  America — France, 
guised  vanquished  knight:  America — France. 
Flippancy — worse — flippancy  is  bad — tool  of  shallowness — consciencelessness 

— insincerity — in  Wilde  we  see  it — has  to  do  with  you,  W.  C. 
Still — Wilde  is  juggler  with  circus  tradition. 
You — country   lout — trying  to   step   into   tights. 
Juggle  words — as  balls — about  feelings — impressions — 
such  you  have — no  art! 

No  rhythm — curves — science — conviction — background — tradition  ! 
Where  your  circus? 
Where  do  you  stand? 
What  do  your  words  mea  ^  ? 
Never  to  point- — what  point? 

There  is  none — carry  no  meaning — aimed  at  blank! 
No  background — tapestry — spangled  cloth — circus — arena — tradition — 
carry  none! 

Uncreated — uncreative. 
No  echo  from — to — 
no  carriage — resonance — 

feeble  lost  soul  piping  miserably  in  agony  of  despair — 
— no  concern  of  ours — 
Stray  words  of  unnourished — unevolved — decaying  imagination — in  abandon 

of  disorder — conceit — despair — composure   lost — juggled   before  public 

to  deceive  yourself — 
trying  to  deceive  others! 

Vain  fools  do  that — one  way  or  other  in  life — called  bluff — 
in  America  by  no  means  despised — successfully  carried  off — 
cheap    circus    that! 
Let  swirl — sometimes  pretty — sometimes  beautiful — sometimes  strong  even — 

T  he    Lit  tie    Re  vie  w  51 

all-times  bad  science — throughout  unskilled — 

no  right  to  perform. 

What  do  juggler's  balls  signify  but  skill  of  juggler? 

Balls  must  be  importance — skill  matter  of  course.  ' 

Juggle  significance  with  balls  jewelled — 

that  I  mean:  balls  jeivelled — 

Keep  person  in  background — 

physical  presence  forgotten: 

To  you — 

to   audience. 

Strength   of   you:   brutality — makebelieve — phantasmogoria — cheating   before 

limelight — hysteria!   such  it  is. 
Grace — rhythm  of  juggler  is  strength. 
Grace — rhythm  is  strength:  body — mind. 
I  once  saw  supposed  stagegiant  lift  huge  weights — gesticulating — ferocious — 

heaving — sweating — ah   very   convincing — in    farce.      After    exit    tiny 

page — tiniest  to  emphasize  effect — carried  off  ponderous  cannon  balls 

— jaunty! 

This  shall  be  to  you — you  your  best  audience. 
Here  simile  ends: 

Life  no  farce — nor  I  tiny — nor  would  it  be  effective. 
Art — literature  no  farce — nor  artist  actor — permitted  makebelieve. 
Life:    circus    of    seriousness    grim — as    effigy — distinguished    circus — also    is. 
Science — skill — perfection — purpose  in  everything! 
Audience — performer — cultured — no  cheating. 
Hoiv  cultured  is  God? 

Perfection  is  purpose — of  life — circus — to  satisfy  audience! 
Makebelieve  shall  be  known  as  such — must  be  brilliant  in  performance — 
more  magic — more  skill — tit  for  tat — 

something  must  be  given  in  exchange  for  applause — no  amateurish  bluff  car- 
ries laurels — 
Clumsiness:  disguised  strength    {not  vice  versa,   IV.  C.) — agility — technique 

Nothing  in  circus  funny — easy — for    performer — unless    in    breathing-space 

during  rest. 
Performance — action — work:   breathless — highest  tension. 
Clown — sauntering  leisurely — aimlessly — taut  in  muscle — brain — to  purpose — 

carries  point. 
Truly  great  actor  more  seriously  in  character  he  carries — slips   into:  than 

you — W.  C. — are  in  what  you  try  to  show  off  in:  force. 
Force  ripples — vibrates  life — muscle  in  action  one  visible  form. 

52  T  he    Lit  tie    Review 

You:  brittle — breaking — decaying  iron — eaten  by  rustworm. 

Blood  tingles  with  repugnance:  that  vain  vanity! 

You  surely  are  in  hell! 

Ignore  I  would  that — not  would  blood  tingle — iv/iere  there  is  not  blood  hidden 

This  no  way  out. 

Gleefully  W.  C.  discovers — (let's  participate  in  discovery  if  not  in  glee — 
stunned  to  meet  mummy  wavering  along  highway  of  art — ghastly!  not 
to  W.  C. :  makes  practice  out  of  dancing  with  dead  things — has  to 
dance  with  some  things — can  not  afford  palpitating  things — takes 
corpse — handy) : 

"The  imagination  goes  from  one  thing  to  the  other" — 

(like  stray  flea!) 

Do  say!  !  ! 

"The  age  of  humans  is  told  by  the  hair" — 

Mummy — fade  to  catacomb — shoulder  to  shoulder  with  sister  shade — 

out  of  dictionary — 

W.  C.'s  flea  so  unmannerly — disobedient — untrained — 

by  careless  mistake  let  into  circus — jumps  upon  shimmer-raked  sensitive 
arena  sawdust — prepared  for  meticulous*  delicious  design — criss-cross 
— naughty — vulgar — apish  ! 

Subconscious  guilt  (is  there  better  proof  of  hidden  knowledge  of  impotence — 
sidelong  glancing  bad  conscience?)  makes  W.  C.  send  nurse  after  run- 
away pet — making  apologies  for  hilarious  rioting  from  common-sensed 
tender-swelling  matron  bosom  to  invite  understanding — admiration — 
love  for  snookums'  uncouth  romping — indecent  postures — smirking: 
temperament — patient    audience — 

(aside:)  jackasses! 

Voice  of  nurse: 

"The  arrangement  of  the  Notes   (!)   each  following  its   (!)    Poem    (!)    and 

separated  from  it  by  a  ruled  line — " 

My  voice  in  audience: 

Resourceful  bourgeois ! 

painstaking  doctor!! 

loving  papa! ! ! 

Be  trainer — flea  master — ! 

Stray  flea  vermin — 

Tom — Dick — Harry — houses — no   luxury   hours   to   cuddle. 

Circus  flea  artist — 

every  jump  active  consciousness! 

*This   word   dedicated    solely   to   Marcel   Duchamp.     Gave    It   to    me   with 
tongue  lilt  emanation  of  spirit — H  is  he. 

TheLittleReview  53 

Alcohol    unsettles — dethrones    caution — removes    mask — exhibits    soul's    true 


America's  soul  in  such  condition — she  even  realized — had  to  do  something! 

With  shallowness — flippancy — not  unfamiliar  in  politics  of  this  lumbering 
blunderer — helpless  giant  on  infant's  feet — knuckles  for  brains — alto- 
gether freak — forthwith  decided  to  hide  disease  beneath  artificial 
complexion — over-paint  boils — blemishes — mask  ill — vulgar  features — 

factorygirl  America. 

One  does  not  help  soul  in  merely  depriving  it  of  drug. 

What  does  America  offer  instead? 


Hence  W.  C: 

With  shreds  of  intellect — reason — imagination — heirlooms  scattered — torn — 
ravaged — from  timeremoved  Spain — by  ancestor — hale — whole — nor 
Jew  nor  American — 

with   United   States  carloads  of  conceit  of   inexperience — 

vain   boy — mature  only  in  years — business — not   in   veins — emotion: 

that  most  desolate  of  lonelinesses:  not  to  have  grown — developed — ad- 
vanced in  experience  of  blood  with  advancing  years — most  hideous 

immature  man! 

Oiie   has   to  learn  to   be   grown-ups. 

Castaway  on  shore  of  life — stranger  to  experience — 

fugitive  from  emotion — 

coward   of  blood: 

starving — crying  for  food — cloth — to  cover  naediiess — emotions  shattering 
in  barrenness — provided  no  sheltering  garment — carressing  folds!  for 
ornament — to  be  gay  with — proud — to  adorn  him  with — in  splendour — 
man's   estate — to   be   precious — worth   name  ! 

Mans  woman's  womans  more  so  I — too  cowardly  to  go  get — live  merry — die 
trying — 

in  courage  happiness — in  defeat  self-respect — in  death  dignity — corpse  vic- 

never  in  cowardice! 

S.iouid    it    look    ever    so    proper — safe! — hedged — bordered — by    frontlawn — 

bungalow — bankaccount — town     esteem.:     shell     for     self-contempt — hoivever 

thick  that  may  be — by:  either  own  voluptuousness — (shall  I  say  "sumptuous- 
ness,"  W.  C. ? — reminds  me  of  startling  answer!  piercing  radiance 
regarding  your  relationship  to  words — baffling  attitude  toward  art — 
shall  relate  it  later  on)  or  callousness  of  possessor — kernel  is  felt — 
felt  by  W.  C. 

Hence,  W.  C: 

54  T  he    Lit  1 1  e    Review 

With  audacity  of  inexperience— cowardice  of  insincerity— distinct— peculiar 
not  surprising —  characteristic  of  all  representatives  of  races  of  lost 
foothold : 

no  convictions— none  to  stand  on— for— fight  with— for— ideal  of  family  cave 
— only  one — tottering  in  primitive  insufficiency  all  around  where  occurs 
some  growth — development — evolution  in  brain  cells — :  in  intellect  fed 
by  senses — stirred  by  imagination — ambassador  of  instincts — tottering 
even  around  about  W.  C.  with  heavy  clumsy  brain — atavistically 
handicapped  by  Jewish  family  tradition — sentiment — where  shall  wis- 
dom—  (child  of  conviction — courage — intense  concentration — that  must 
take  place  of  primitive  thread-bare  ideal — as  does  in  Europe) — come 
from  in  America — destroyer  of  value — creator  never — 

unless  in  sense  negative — creating  disgust — revolt — in  developed  inhabitants — 

by  decree  of  pawer  as  everything  serves  ultimate  goal. 

God  is  God — 

stronger  than  chaos — 

foe  to  disorder.  ' 

Bad  things  yeast  to  raise  revolt  in  dough — achieve  right  balance  in  cake. 

Far  still  is  world  from  being  cake — well-baked — 

raisins — with  tissues  tender — feel   lumpiness  of  dough   most — scream — tell — 

I  feel   W.   C.s  stagnation — fake-gesture — tell scream: 

Familycave  crumbling — shedding  mortar — tottering — debris-littered — dingy- 
looking  sty — no  joy — not  holding  nails  to  parade — flaunt  ornament — 
pride  of  spendthriftly  generous — rich  heart — more  dire  necessity  to 
system  of  every  creature:  scent — song — dip — dance — colour — play — 
to:  flower — fish — bird — racoon — Indian — us — than  material  necessi- 
ties— foundation  to  start  ecstasies!  Needs  airship  hangar  to  fly  from — 
not  to  be  overshadowed  by — tied  to — swallowed  up — wiped  out — 
shackled  to  cowardice  of  immobility — American  mistake  of  dense 
vulgar  brains  rendering  W.  C.'s  legs  immovable — agonized  arms  out 
— thrust — vile  curse  of  helpless  rage  on  sneering  lip  distorted — 
doomed  to  torture — tries  to  swing  up  into:  dip  song — scent — colour — 
play — t/iat   miserable   fashion. 

Feet    incased    by    faulty    foundations    decay — debris — stone — dust — to    escape 

cave  partly — leffs  entombed. 
Cowardice — insufficiency — incapability     not    encases     legs:     immovable     legs 

produce  immovable  brains. 
Around   us   result  of  family   cave:  encased   legs — brains — in   faulty   founda- 
tions' debris:  America. 
W.   C.'s   "art"   faulty   foundation — crumbling   walls — 
hysterical  doings — 

to  ward  off  fate — dimly  realized — by  degree  to  smother  alive: 
Squirms — thrashes — blasphemes — howls — telling  himself — us:  it — be  music! — 

TheLittleRevieu)  55 

undaring — incapable    to    extricate    himself — right — decisive — strong — 
clean  action  of  man — 
neurasthenic — 

amount  of  acting  to  escape  action — 

overdone — wild — weak   gestures — violent — incoherent — utterances  —   to   dis- 
guise condition — :  crippledom — 
above  everything — from  oivn  consciousness; 

Shall   we   extend   pity — endure — recognize — honor: — agony — grimaces — howls 
— writhings  of  cripple — needing  nurse — death — in  art-circus's  arena — 
performers — who  belong — have  strength  tested — ability — genius — 

He  no  raisin — yeast! 
Circus  has  freak  show — 
life — shadow — hospital — prison — 
his  place ! 

Stagnation  creates  revolt — 

life  suppressed  will  scream — since  life  is  life — 
even  in  America: 

W.  C.  screams — I — zu/io  more  artful? 
Hence  my  right  to  judge:  expel  fake  performer — amateur — freak — to  v.>here 

Silly   impudent  cripple — tactless — ill   in   brain   with   family — cavetrouble    de- 
formities— indignities — infirmities — weaknesses — wounds — sores  —  j  ab- 
Get  well — die ! 
Keep  place. 
From   rudeness   of  title   to   crude   triteness   of  content  "Kora   in   Hell"    does 

make  me  scream — struggle against  insult  to  life's  beauty — dignity — 

splendour — nobility — harmony — sense — raisins   are   aware   of — have   to 
guard    against    mob-attack — lynchring — !    bring    knowledge    along    in 
tissues — blood  of  body — ancient  wine  in  cobvvebbed  old  bottle. 
Life:  sense! 

Art  never  insults  life!  loves — caresses  every  form — shape. 
Who  hates — insults  life — proves  pariah. 
Thee  I  call  "Hamlet  of  wedding-ring" — chasing  ghost  of  honeymoon  bliss — 

to    detect    who   poisoned — killed — once    live    body. 
Circumstance     primarily — individually — insignificant — since     not     can     blood 

be  filled  into  extinct  withered-away  tissue. 
Of  secondary — social — importance  for   reason  of  exploration — civilization. 
Life — joy — onward  movement — sensuous  rush  of  hour  must  not  be  restricted 

— upheld. 
King's  throne  never  is  empty  because  king  is  murdered — king  is  immortal — 
tradition's  progressive  law — God's  law. 


















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58  T  he    Lit  tie    Review 

Revenge:  emotion  uncreative — orbs  in  back  of  skull — unadvancing — cells 
stagnant — sentimental — unconstructive  memory — dwelling  in  ceme- 
terygarlanding  grave  of  honeymoon  bliss — life's  ony  sad  duty — ! 
hugging  skeleton — "dancing  with  dead  things"  (such  dance  becomes 
habit  with  stagnant  cells) — hiding — retreating  from  swoop  of  time — 
brilliant — open  battle — stupid  sacrifice  of  present  to  past — of  blood  to 
past — of  future  to  past.  Present  future's — creator's — time — to  plant — 
faster    creation — action — future — not    for    past — revenge — destruction. 

No  great  revolution — war — ever  has  been — logically  could  not  be — backmo- 
tion — impulse  secondary!  but:  step  of  change — expansion — pulse: 
impulse  primary — fall  of  leaves. 

Revenge:  backwash: 

Winter:  summer's  logical  successor — killer  by  necessity — for  advancement — 
new  bloom. 

Nature  sits  in  nature's  lap:  one  two — two  one — action — contra — action — 
clash — new  life. 

After  detection  Hamlet  unable  to  decide  on  action  befitting  system — tem- 
perament of:  either  artist — philosopher — or  man — soldier — not  suffi- 
cient system — temperament  in  evidence.  Reads  philosophy  with  mind 
incapable  either  to  use — leave  it.  Unfit.  Youth  old — sapped  of  stamina 
— unfertile  emotions — robbed — cheater  of  strength  to  shape  character — 
l/iat  makes  take  stand. 

Weakling — wails ! 

Doing  amount  of  acting  to  escape  action — 

suited  Shakespeare — 

put  Hamlet  into  play  to  parade  unfitness.     Solution:  annihilation — death. 

He  had  Hamlet — I  have  you. 

At  that  time — many  more  hysterical  alleys — byways — to  avoid  facing  prob- 
lem— than   prince   of   Denmark   discovered — Hamlet's   trod — 

did  not  toot  through  megaphone  agonies  of  crippledom  into — public  from 
street  corners — thoroughfares — calling  it  "art." 

Would  have  cost  dear  in  ridicule — "pillory" — danger:  being  stoned  to  death 
for  disorderly  conduct — public  insult. 

Tradition — touchstone — sensitive  to  forms  of  life: 

Genius — straight    shapes — shapes    mediocre — misshapes. 

Tradition's  necessity  precious  result: 

to  produce  strong  pure  type  for  high  places — find  every  one's  place: 

weakling  into  mediocrity — sordidness — annihilation. 


Democracy  makes  cripples  conceited — gives  fools  chances — helps  weakling — 
lout — to  place  where  does  not  belong. 

The    Little    Review  59 

Not  God's  way. 

God's  way  long  service. 

Chances  must  not  be  easy. 

Nature — power — God — :  selective — aristocratic — :  tradition — aimed  for  per- 

One  logically  contains  other:  selection — discard. 

Uncontaminated  justice. 

Where  pity? 

Aristocracy:   fitness   to   fulfill    obligation — 


Aristocrat  is  born — as  artist  is.  Civilization's  business  to  make  conscious  of: 
caste  of  culture. 

Aristocrat's  high  social  station — estate  to  uphold  that — hangar  for  airplane — 
to  do  exalted  business  unhampered — as  is  king's  throne — crown — sym- 
bols for  exalted  duty  that  takes  exalted  strength — t/iat  is  splendor. 

Demand  of  continous  individual  happiness — densest  lack  of  logic — iindevelop- 
ment — primitive — rank — unreasoning  animal — desire — vulgar — plebian. 
— no  aristocrat  is  guilty  of. 

To  be  human:  part  of  spirit — know  ivill. 

Blood — instinct — turn  to   brain  cell — intellect — light. 

For  exclusively  that  reason  blood  circulates  flesh. 

Sun — earth — to — fro — to — fro  electric  current — exchange. 

Bliss — woe  fruit  from  tree — shell — nut — nut — shell — nuttree — fragrant  in 
paradise — slandered  by  Jehova. 

Emotion:   soul's   gymnastic — mothersoil:   sex — march   onward — motion    up — ! 

Every  sinewy  scintillating  jerk — curve — twist — distortion — of  snake:  to  per- 
fect ultimate  goal — :  unit. 

in  perfect  circle  holding  tanl  with  lip. 

in  perfect  circle  holding  tail  with  mouth. 

God's  booming  laugh. 

Snake  dance:  south — 

Snake  circling  earth:    ..Norse  myth. 

Primitive  organism — in  profundity  constructed  sound — feels  life's  sense — 
sensuous  dance — in  sorrow  profoundest — red  deathwound:  joy — ex- 
hilaration— in  simplicity — as  did  Goethe — in  wisdom: 


"Wer  nie  sein   Brod  mit  Trahnen  ass — 
Wer  nie  die  kumniervollen  Nachte 

Auf   seinem   Bette   weinend   sass 

Der  Kennt  euch  nicht  ihr  himmlishen   Machte." 
Johann   Wolfgang  v.    Goethe. 

60  T  he    Lit  1 1  e    Review 

Body's  comfort — discomfort — ache — bliss   of  organism — nil ! 

Emotion — spirit  moving — woe — bliss  dancing — lifecrest — supreme   Nietzsche! 

Nietxsche — Goethe — century  later:  disintigrating — breaking  culture — for  ac- 
quisition of  new  blood — for  that  must   blood   be   spilled — expansion — 

With  Nietzsche  war  started, 
light — step  up  ! 

All  Teutons. 

American — jew — equals — not  repulsing  each  other  for  that  reason — as — 
through  tradition's  wisdom — jew  does  european — asiatic — in  luhom  re- 
sides bloodknoivledge. 

American — jew  of  future. 

Today  in  newness  not  noted — tradition  ignorant  to  existence. 

In  materialism  callous — brain   dense — plebianism — jew — american — meet. 

God's  goal:  body  to  soul — material  to  spirit — arriving  at  Himself. 

In  Europe  "Kora  in  Hell"  never  had  had  chance! 

In  Europe  W.  C.  no  need  do  that! — he  ivould  not  be. 

Jew    mixture — in    Europe — not    as    castaway — spirit-desertd : 

Heine:  aristocratic  artist  product — teuton-hebrew. 

As  poet  only. 

In  lilt  of  his  no  ring  of  distempered  jewharp  in  lilt  that  shattered  to  splinters 
by  waters  of  Babylon. 

Artist  soul  of  Heine  noble  teutonic  metal — purest  ring.  , 

Today — in  future  days — no  Heine  can  be  born  in  Europe. 

Times  change — 

current  strong — 

jews  stagnant — 

degree — further — 

ruined.     .     .     . 

{to   be  continued) 

A    WOYEI. 



At  Bookstores $  Im^O 

Recor?t77iended  to  you  by  The  l^ittle  Review 

The  Reader  Critic 

JValter  ShaiVy  Ne^v  York: 

May  I  ask  in  the  name  of  art  why  next  month  you  will  "report  all  the 
blatant  ineptitudes  of  the  court  proceedings,"   and  answer  them? 

Surely  none  of  your  audience  gives  a  damn  what  the  court  says;  we 
have  all  reached  that  stage  of  sophistication,  so  why  use  up  good  paper  on 
subjects  with  which  we  have  no  concern?  It  is  purely  a  matter  for  your 
business  manager  to  get  out  of  as  easily  as  possible — unless  you  still  believe 
in  "progress"  and  the  possibility  of  education  by  yelling  about  "injustice"; 
but  even  then  it  is  a  matter  of  sociology — not  at  all  within  the  field  of  art. 

But  what  is  within  the  field  of  aesthetics:  As  one  of  your  audience  who 
does  not  feel  "Ulysses"  is  a  work  of  art  (no  one  with  whom  I  have  dis- 
cussed "Ulysses"  considers  it  more  than  "interesting")  I  suggest  or  perhaps 
have  the  right  to  demand,  since  you  agree  with  Coomaraswamy  that  the 
rasika  has  a  duty  to  prove  his  contention  that  a  certain  work  is  art,  a  criti- 
cism of  "Ulysses"  from  you. 

This  is  within  your  field  and  not  an  answer  to  the  organized  stupidity 
of  the  non-aesthetics. 

[These  things  do  not  go  by  duty  and  obligation  but  by  necessity. 
You  have  no  more  right  to  demand  that  the  critic  make  a  new  work 
of  art  (his  criticism)  than  you  have  a  right  to  demand  the  original 
work  of  art.  Certainly  the  critic  has  to  prove  his  case  if  he  has  the 
necessity  to  make  other  men  see  and  believe  what  he  has  perceived; 
but  no  one  can  demand  it  of  him. 

"Ulysses"  has  been  running  in  the  Little  Revieiv  for  three  years. 
There  have  been  many  discussions  in  that  time  about  Mr.  Joyce  as  an 
artist  and  about  different  aspects  of  "Ulysses."  If  you  and  your 
friends  who  think  it  only  interesting  have  not  the  perception  or  the 
grace  to  know  that  Joyce  is  an  artist,  then  no  second  sight  could  come 
to  you,  I  fear. 

If  you  have  not  seen  him  tight-rope-walking  the  cobweb  of  the 
human  consciousness,  conceiving  and  executing  the  rhythms  of  un- 
spoken thought;  if  you  have  not  seen  Mr.  Bloom  spring  full-fledged 
from  his  own  brain;  if  you  haven't  the  carefully  organized,  master- 
fully coloured  abstract  picture  of  the  mind  of  Dublin;  if  you  have  not 
got  the  luminosity  of  his  genius,  nothing  will  help  you  but  a  work  .of 
equal  magnitude  which  no  one  could  write  and  which  you  again  would 
not  understand. — jli.) 


In  poems  by  Philippe  Soupault  beginning  page  26: 

"Flamme" — first  line — "dechiree." 

"Dimanche" — last    line — "sourire." 

"Route" — last  line — "caillou." 

"Horizon" — last  line — "reviendrai." 

In  poem  on  page   17,   "Mer  d'Huile" — first  line — "Si  nous"   .   .   .   etc. 

{Lti  Stgnalalra  J*  c*  mant/tite  hailUnI  ta  Frantt,  Tj^mlrlqae.  I'EtpagiU, 
tjHlemagtu,    I'lioU;    la    5(i(iw.  ta  Btiglvvt.    tU-.    matt   n'ani    oucunt    nalhnaluO 


DADA    connaft    tout.    DADA    crache    tout. 





ds    ritalie 
♦*  des  accordions 

.  O  des  pantalons  de  femnaes 

de   la    patrie 

des  sardines 

de    Fiume 

de  I'Art  (tous  exag^rez  cher  ami) 

de  la   douceur 

^-♦*  de  d'Annunzio 

.O  quelle    horreur 

de  rh6roIsme 

des  moustaches 

de  la  luxure 

de  coucher  avec   Verlaine 

de  I'id^al  (II  est  gentil) 
^_^^  du   Massachussetts 

^\J  du   pass£ 

des  odeurs 

des  salades 

du  g£nle    .    du   g^nle   .   du  g^nie 

Q*'  de  la  journ^e  de  8  heures 

et  des  Tiolettes  de  Parroe 


DADA  ne  parle  pas.  DADA  n'a  pas  J'idee  fixe.  DADA  n'attrape  pas  les  mouckes 


Le  futurisie  est  mort.  De  quol  ?  De  DADA 

Une   jeune  fille  se  suicide.  A  cause  de  quoi  ?  De  DADA 

_A  On  t^l^phone  aux  espritt.  Qui  est-ce  I'inventeur  ?  DADA 

.   O  On  vou«  maiche  «ur  le«  piedi.  C'est  DADA 

^  Si  voua  avex  dei  idtes  «4rieuse«  sur  la  vie, 

.       ^  Si  VOU8  faites  des  d^couverlea  artistiques 

*\  ^  et  »i  tout  d'un  coup  voire  t4le  se  met  Ik  cr^piter   de  rire, 

O  ti  vous  trouvez  toutes  vos  idtes  tnutiles  et  ridicules,  sachez  que 


*Issued    at    the    contra-Marinetti    demonstration    in    Paris    recently. 

le    cubisme    constrult    una    cath6cirole    en    pat6    da    Toie    artlsticiue 

Que   fait   DADA  ? 

lexpresslonnlsme    empolsonne    l«s    sardrnos    artlstlques 

Que    fait  DADA  ? 

le    slmultan^lsmo    en    est    encore    &    ea    premiere    communion    artistlque 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

le    futu^isme    veut    monter    dans    un    lyrlsme    +    ascenseur    artistlque 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

lunanlnlsme    embrasse    le    toutlsme    et    p6che    A    la    llgne    artistlque 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

le    n^o-classlcisme    d^couvre    les    blenfalts    de    lart    artistlque 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

le    paroxysme    fait    lo    trust    de    tous    les    fromages    artlstlques 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

Vultraisme    recommande    le    melange    de    ces    7    choses    artlstlques 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

le  cr6aclonisme  le  vortlctsme  limaglsme  proposent  aussi  quelciu«s  recettes  artistlQues 

Que  fait  DADA  ? 

Que   fait  DADA  ? 

50  francs  de  recompense  a  celui  qui  trouve  le   moyen   de  nous  expliquer 


Dada  passe  tout  par  un  nouveau  filet. 

Dada  est  I'amertume  qui  ouvre  son  rire  sur  tout  ce  qui  a  ete  fait  consacre  oublie  dans  noire 
langage  dans  notre   cerveau  dans   nos  habitudes.   II   vous  dit  :   Voila   I'Humanite  et  les  bell 
sottises  qui  lent  rendue  heureuse  jusqu'a  cet  age  avanci 




Citoyens,  camarades.  mesdames,  messieurs, 
M6fiez-vou8  des  contrefacons  I  ^P 

Iisa  imitateurs  de  DADA  veulent  vous  presenter  DADA  sous  une  forme  artistlque  qu'il  n'a 
jamais  eue 


On  vous  presents  aujourd'hui  sous  une  forme  pornographique,  uti  esprit  vulgaire  et  baroque 

qui  n'est  pas  I'IDIOTIE  PURE   riclaxaie  par  DADA 


PtJtM     12  Janviet   ig^r  E.  Varese,  Tr.  Tzara,  Ph.  Soupault,  Soubeyian,  J.  Rigaul, 

G.   Ribemont-Dessaignes,  M.  Roy.   F,   Ficabia,   B.  P^ret, 
Pour  toute  information  C.  Pansaers,  R,  Huelsenbeck,  J.  Evola,  M,  Ernsl,  P.  Eluard, 

S:air,,zer  "  AU  SANS  PAREIL  "  S"t;  P^r'Tif 'f?.  ^"'p'^^^P'  j;-'-''"!'  G-  Canlarelli,  Mar^. 

Bullet,  Oab.  Bullet,  A.  Breton,  Baargela,  Arp,  \\.  C   Arens- 
37,  Avenue  K]6ber.  Tel.  PASSY  25-22     berg,  L.  Aragon. 







Sherwood     Anderson 

51  East  44th  St. 

New  York 




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.  -^ 


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A  'i  svcA 

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